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BY HENRY GREVILLE. 




ry 





a:V VMX CXJVv. C 


s 


TRANSLATED BY DR. F. C. VALENTINE. 


- Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1884 , by Nor^ 

- — man L. Miinro, in the office of the Librarian of 

Congress, at Washington, D. C. 




NORM AN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

' \ 34 & 26 VANDEWATES ST, 





tCOPYUlGHTED.] 


W TT.Tt O-A-TS. 

By henry greville. 


Translated from the French by Dr. F. C. Valentine. 


CHAPTER I. 

*‘Is he asleep?’ asked Mme. Romanet in a low tone, as her 
husband appeared on the threshold of the dining-room. M. 
Romanet raised his hand to warn her to be silent, advanced 
on the tips of his toes, which made the floor creak horribly, and 
seated himself near his wife, in the circle of light formed by the 
shade of the lamp. 

The great clock, with a noise like the beating of iron, was 
about to strike ten. Mme. Romanet looked at it anxiously, wish- 
ing that it would stop, but how could she prevent the clock from 
striking? The dining-room clock had never stopped a minute 
since the memory of man. It had only been cleaned by blowing 
into it; from time to time the head of the family touched the 
wheels with a little feather dipped in oil, and that sufiiced for 
months, sometimes for years. Then the clock struck, awaken- 
ing the echoes from the glass and silver on the side-board. 

When the last stroke had ceased to vibrate, M. Romanet re- 
plied to his wife, who had shown some signs of impatience. 

“ He is asleep,” said he, “ and sleeps so soundly that I could 
scarcely hear him breathe.” 

“Poor child! he must have been very weary to have gone to 
bed without his dinner.” 

“ He will make up for it to-morrow,” replied M. Romanet. 

“ Really, he has a very good face, though somewhat tanned and 
bronzed in the military service. He is no longer your rosy boy, 
as pretty as a girl, my dear wife. He is a man now.” 

“ He was handsome before, but he is handsomer still now!” " 
proudly responded the mother. “ He is twenty-two years old. 
He is no longer a child. But being a volunteer has spoiled his 
hands and feet.” 

“The volunteer service has some good features,” said M. 
Romanet, sententiously. “Let us speak well of it.” 

The mother sighed lightly, and did not persist in the discussion. 
For some hours she had no longer been angry with the volunteer 
service, which had deprived her of her son for an entire year. 
Had he not returned to the dear paternal fireside, never to leave 
it again ? There he was so much loved, so much petted, that his 


2 


WILD OATS. 


father had sometimes feared lest military life should be too 
rough to this child, who had until then known only pleasure. 

Ah, well, till then life had been very easy for him. In the 
regiment Lucien Eomanet was generally liked, so that many 
little trials had been spared him. Those which could not be 
avoided were not too painful, imbued, as he was, by his father’s 
very comfortable optimistic philosophy. And, besides, his good 
nature brought him many indulgences: a precious gift; he knew 
not malice, therefore he knew not the meaning of the word 
hatred; neither did he know it at school, as he had no jealousy 
during the time that he prepared himself for the examinations 
for the double baccalaureate. 

The father and mother remained up late, talking Jof their 
son, before the logs, which were covered with impalpably 
fine ashes. Lucien was the constant subject of their conversa- 
tion, and it seemed to them that they had never before had 
occasion to mutually confide in each other on his account. 

This return to the parental roof after a year of absence seemed 
to render their son, in some way, a new being. Arriving at 
nightfall, half dead with fatigue, Lucien had only exchanged a 
few words with his parents, and had gone off to bed, in order to 
make up for the sleep that he had lost while traveling. Mme. 
Romanet did not say two words to liim; why should she lose, in 
talking, the few moments in which she could embrace the dear 
being whose presence she had so long missed ? The next day M. 
and Mme. Romanet could learn the changes which this year of 
absence and discipline had wrought in the soul of their child. 

When the old clock struck midnight, the husband and wife 
started, surprised to find themselves up so late, and they arose 
hastily. 

“If we should go to see him asleep?'’ suggested the mother. 

The father smiled, but did not say no. Shading their 
lamp with their hands, they went stealthily toward Lucien’s 
chamber, and stopped at the threshold to look at liim without 
arousing him. 

He slept a profound, dreamless sleep. His handsome fair 
head and somewhat tanned face rested on his pillow as care- 
lessly as that of a child. His fine mustache threw a shadow over 
his mouth, the smile of which his mother adored, and his eyes, 
although closed, seemed, under their thick black lashes, about 
to look at his parents. 

“ How handsome he is!” murmured Mme. Romanet. 

“How absurd mothers are!” replied M. Romanet, gently, 
closing the door with great care. 

“ Tell me that he is not beautiful?” insisted his wife. 

“ You know very well that I will not say that,” said the 
father, smiling. “ Let us acknowledge that we are both absurd.” 


CHAPTER II. 

The next day, before breakfast, on receiving their morning 
journals, all Mantes learned that young M. Romanet had 
arrived the evening before from his regiment. At the hour of 


Wild oats. 


3 


the general promenade, all the ladies of the town who were 
more or less acquainted with. Mme. Romanet remembered that 
they had not been out to take the air for some time, and that it 
was truly a beautiful day for November. 

Therefore the island presented the unusual spectacle, for a 
week-day, of the whole female population, coquettishly attired, 
and having an insane desire to try the effect of their new winter 
hats; the more daring even took out their muffs, while others 
still clung to their parasols. 

The beauty of the day made both desirable. They stopped, 
they chatted, they told each other a thousand interesting things; 
thus the afternoon advanced, and the sun rapidly descended in- 
to the delicious blue-green of the sky which was reflected in the 
Seine. Several ladie* had already regretfully left the more dis- 
tant paths where the arched branches, leafless at this season, 
formed a strange lattice-work against the sky like a delicate 
tracery in the wood carving of a cathedral. 

Mme. Orliet appeared at the end of the path accompanied by 
her daughter Annie. 

“Annie has on a new dress,” said Mme. Sergent to her 
neighbor. 

“ How absurd to dress that little one so richly I” replied that 
charitable person. 

“Not at all! The Orliets have superb relatives in Paris, my 
good friend. They do not dress Annie for Mantes; it is neces- 
sary that she should be dressed for Paris as well.” 

“ I do not say ‘No,’ but gray velvet and chinchilla — if it is 
suitable for her position, it is not suitable for her age. They 
dress her like that because they hope to marry her off soon!” 

“She will marry without our help,” replied Mme. Sergent. 

Her own daughters had been married for a long time, and she 
felt a calm superiority over those mothers wliose daughters 
were still on their hands. 

Annie Orliet walked under the shadow of the high lindens 
with the calm grace of a young girl who knew nothing of life but 
its pleasures. Her mother adored her. She had lost her father 
when very young, but she had two uncles who loved only her 
and who endeavored to take her fathers place. 

Why did her mother live at Mantes when all her relatives 
should have drawn her to Paris ? This was a part of Mme. 
Orliet’s plan of education. 

Born at Mantes in an old and magnificent mansion, the family 
homestead, she had never looked upon any other place as her 
home. The high ceilings of her house, the large latticed windows 
which looked upon the river, the terrace with its steps, in sum- 
mer covered with pomegranate and orange trees, alone could give 
her the impression of home. 

One of the pleasures of the widow’s life had been to see her 
daughter Annie grow up in the place where she herself had 
learned to walk, and then to talk. When she saw her little 
daughter clad in the white muslin of the first communion, in 
the same place where her deceased mother had, eighteen yeai*s 
before, arranged the folds of her veil around her face, Mme. 


4 


WILD OATS. 


Orliet had experienced one of those emotions which come only 
to those who have raised from childhood an altar for remem- 
brances in their souls. 

It was her own youthful self which walked before her in those 
snowy folds, it was a past whose memory floated around her in 
the moldings of the cornices, in the angles of the doors, in the 
lambrequins of the curtains. The materials of the curtains had 
been renewed, but that signifled nothing. Did they not shade 
the same nooks in the windows ? 

Among these beloved surroundings, modified perhaps by small 
household details, where the color might change, but where the 
form remained immutable, Mme. Orliet wished to bring up 
her daughter. She had only cultivated the best side of the 
province; the rigid censure which instead of being exercised 
upon ourselves is often indulged toward others, that prudence 
which compels us in social life to weigh our speech and thoughts, 
order and economy even, all these were acquired here easier than 
in Paris. 

These qualities, almost virtues, Mme. Orliet believed easier 
to teach her daughter at Mantes than elsewhere. Ordinary pro- 
fessors had been summoned from Paris. Twice a week, Annie 
and her mother took the cars and went to attend a course of 
lessons given by professors who could not come to them. Noth- 
ing was left undone to give the ycung girl a solid and brilliant 
education. But the injurious, unhealthy Parisian atmosphere 
had not yet spoiled the fragile petals of this white rose-bud. 
Annie was Annie, and she resembled no one else. 

Mme. Orliet had not come to promenade under the trees im- 
pelled by the same motives that actuated the other ladies of the 
town ; the news of the day had not yet reached her : what at- 
tracted her was the supreme and wholly artistic charm of the 
outlines and colors, and the atmosphere of this extraordinary 
comer of the earth at the hour of sunset. The river reflected 
in the clear sky, objects already becoming gray, losing their 
distinct forms and assuming exaggerated ones. 

“Out so late?” said Mme. Sergent going toward her. 

“You know it is my favorite hour,” replied Mme. Orliet. 

They exchanged a few words, t hen Annie and her mother con- 
tinued then walk to the end of the island, toward the setting 
sun, where the rays joined the emerald waves, which at that 
hour were tipped with silver. 

They stopped at the end of the lawn, where the path ended, 
and gazed around them. On the right the hills arose, ob- 
scured in the gray mist of twilight; on the left houses sur- 
rounded by gardens, formed thick and somber shadows; the 
tall black trees seemed an impenetrable wall. 

At their feet was the brilliant water, and above, behind the 
gardens, the rose-tinted sky, whose purple clouds mingled with 
those of an indefinite, soft green. 

The red paled little by little, the green became more and more 
indefinite, while mother and daughter silently enjoyed this feast 
for their eyes. 

“We are very late,” said Mme. Orliet turning around. “It 


WILD OATS. 5 

is scarcely worth while to go under the trees, where we shall 
see nothing; we will go along the shore.” 

“ What a pity I It is pleasanter under the trees, and then we 
are afraid ” 

Then she gave a childish laugh. 

“Mamma,” said she, “ let me sing, there is an echo here, you 
know, and there is nobody in this part of the island bat the 
gardeners. Besides, nobody will think it is I.” 

Mme. Orliet did not forbid her; the young girl threw her 
pretty blonde head on one side and uttered a burst of melody 
which the echo sent back to her softened, and fading like colors 
that one sees in dreams. For a moment she amused herself 
with this play, then, to end off, she sung a complete scale with 
a trill in the highest note of her voice. 

The river seemed to flow quicker, and to become clearer ; the 
shadows deepened and the sandy path which the two women 
paced, sparkled like a ribbon of burnished steel. 

When turning around Annie saw a human form a few steps 
off, she trembled and took her mother’s hand. 

“ Are you afraid said she. 

“Annie !” said a grave, sweet voice, “ Madame Orliet.” 

“ LucienI” cried mother and daughter at the same time. 

He advanced rapidly and took their hands. 

“ They told me at your house that you were here,” replied he, 
quickly, like an agitatedman who wishes to conceal his emotion, 
“ and I came to find you. Do you know it is imprudent to 
remain here so late. In this part of the island there are people 
who sometimes rob hen-coops, and they «vould rob you if they 
thought they could do so without being seen.” 

“ Scold us I” said Annie ; “ that is agreeable. I like it.” 

Lucien stopped short. 

“ Really, it is very agreeable. Can you not understand that 
it is very "pleasant to be scolded by one whom one likes ?” 

A mysterious silence fell upon this part of the island accom- 
panied, not broken, by the surging of the water in the grass on 
the shore. 

I 1“ When did you return?” asked Mme. Orliet. 

“ Last evening ; my mother made me make calls all day. 
When we arrived at your house, you had gone out. Was 
that you, Annie, who were singing a little while ago? Do sing 
again. I beg of you.” 

“ How do you know it was me?” said she, somewhat abashed. 

“ Is there another voice in the world like yours?” 

“ You might have thought it was a bird!” said the young girl 
with a gesture resembling the flapping of wings. 

“ Come, let us hear that trill once more, will you?” 

She threw her head to one side and sang till she was out of 
breath, while he looked at her in admiration. 

She appeared almost black to him on the light background; 
the velvet of her costume, clinging to her graceful form, made 
outlines like one of Jean Goujon’s bas-reliefs. The face alone, 
illuminated by the light of the horizon and by the reflection from 
the water below, seemed to shine like mother-of-pearl. She 


6 WILD OATS. 

threw her trill to the echo, then turned toward him hanging her 
head. 

“ Is that it?” said she. 

“ Thanks. That was delicious! What a pity that it could not 
last forever!” 

They walked toward the town. When they entered under 
the arch of the lindens, Mme. Orliet turned to the right to walk 
in what little daylight was still left them. 

“ Oh, mamma! let us go under the trees, I beg, since Lucien 
will accompany us!” said Annie. 

They entered into the shadows, which are less dark when one 
walks in them, than when seen from a distance. Still it was 
very dark, and instinctively they walked close together. The dry 
leaves crackled under their feet sending forth a pungent odor. 
A small branch having turned under Annie’s foot she extended 
her hand to remove it and encountered Lucien’s arm, which 
made her laugh: she dropped it immediately and took that of 
her mother. They had talked while they were under this dark 
arch; when they arrived in sight of the lamps, in the crowded 
part of the town, they no longer wished to laugh. Silent and 
weary, as people who have passed a long day together, they 
went as far as the door of the Orliet mansion," and there they 
separated with a singular feeling of joy mingled with discontent. 

Lucien returned to the home of his parents: the two ladies en- 
tered their own apartments. On turning around the young man 
saw a lamp burning in the window of the first floor. 

“ What a singular thing!” said he, continuing on his way. “ It 
is Annie, and it is not she. One would say that there is some- 
thing strange between us which was not there last year. What 
a marvelous voice! And how pretty she was there on the bor- 
der of the river! Truly, she is not like anybody else.” 

During this time Mme. Orliet in vain smoothed the rebelli- 
ous hair of her daughter, who was kneeling at her feet. 

“ It is very pleasant, mamma, is it not, that he should come to 
us like that ? See what an extraordinary thing!” said she, rais- 
ing her clear eyes to her best friend. 

“That Lucien should have sought us, that he should know 
where we were?” said her mother, teasingly. 

“ No, that he should come like that, while I was sitting on the 
banks of the marvelous water. How lovely it was, mamma — 
the water, the sky, the trees, everything! And the echo, too. 
And the return in the dark — all darkness. Without him you 
would have come back by the lighter path, would you not, 
mamma? What do you think of Lucien ?” 

“ I think that his hair is cut too short, and that it does not be- 
come him. I hope, too, that he will let his beard grow, for he is 
ugly without his beard.” 

Annie did not answer, and felt a sudden desire to weep. 

Why should her mother, who was ordinarily so kind and so 
indulgent, judge the friend of her childhood so severely, upon 
the first hour of his return ? That was not wholly just. 

“But, mamma,” said she, “you saw him only in tl:^e dark. 


WILD OATS, 


Wait, at least, till you have seen him by candle-light, as they 
say!” 

Reassured by this thought, she laughed merrily. 


CHAPTER III. 


At the end of a month, Lucien Romanet’s hair and beard had 
grown out, and the most pronounced of his enemies, for he had 
a few, could not deny that he was very handsome. Everybody 
at Mantes conceded this, they even commenced to call him “ the 
handsome Romanet,” whifch annoyed him greatly. 

But long before this, Lucien had rummaged to the bottom of 
an old trunk, that he had carefully locked the night before he 
went to his regiment, and taken out some tubes of paint, and a 
palette, which had been pohshed by use. From the garret he 
brought some old paintings that had been hanging there with 
their faces to the walls. Some of these he brought noiselessly 
down one morning before dawn, and hung on the walls of his 
own room, to his mother’s great displeasure; but she did not 
dare to say anything, for fear of annoying her husband. 

One afternoon an easel was surreptitiously introduced into the 
house, and the next day, about nine o’clock in the morning, 
when Mme. Romanet put her head into her son’s room, thinking 
that he would still be in bed, she saw him before his window 
to choose which scene he should sketch. 



How, Lucien! you are not going to take up painting again?” 
said she, in such a discontented tone that he could not help 
laughing wiiile he took her in his arms. 

“ What do you wish, my beloved mother ? It is stronger than 
I,” replied he. “ I am afraid that after all you and my father will 
be obliged to make a painter of your only son.” 

“ I had hoped that that would pass off with the regiment,” 
frankly said the old lady. 

“ On the contrary, my fondness for it is only increasing by 
suppression. What do you wish, my cherished mother? All 
vocations are like that, the more you try to repress them the 
more imperious they become.” 

Mme. Romanet seated herself upon the bed, and remained 
some time in sUent consternation. 

“ What will your father say?” said she at last. 

“My father will say that he loves me; that he will not deny 
me anything that will make me happy, and that, as I am his only 
child, he cannot wish to do me harm. Seriously, my dear mother, 
I know well what objections you will both make; that one can 
never earn money at painting! I am aware of it; that is true 
until the day when one does earn something, and then one 
earns a great deal. I have not discovered that truth to-day, or 
rather it is not I who discovered it, but Jalbrun ” 

“ Who is Jalbrun ?” 

“ A friend of mine, a very talented musician, who does not 
earn any money. He said this to me: ‘ Painting is a profession 
for the rich, or, at least, people in easy circumstances. Who- 
ever is not sure of being able to live for several years without 


8 


WILD OATS, 


earning a cent, ought never to adopt that profession.’ Ah, well, 
mother, it seems to me that we possess these desired conditions. 
I very well know that we are not immensely rich; but you have 
put money aside for me, to buy me a law practice, if I should 
not wish to succeed to my father’s. I shall be obliged to study 
law three years, a profession for which I have not the slightest 
taste. Give me three years to become a good painter, and I will 
then take care of myself.” 

“ But, my poor child,” said Mme. Eomanet, judiciously, 
“in three years, if you have not been successful, you will not 
have learned your profession, and you will have lost three 
years.” 

“You calculate like Bareme, my incomparable mother,” re- 
plied Lucien. “ But if in the three yearn I shall not obtain the 
success which I hope to deserve, you may do with me as you 
please. I will not offer the least resistance; while now, if you 
will not assist me to convince my father, you will see me very 
sad and unhappy for three years. Confess now, that it is not 
worth while to make me unhappy ?” 

They talked for a long time, and liis mother was convinced; 
could Mme. Eomanet wish for anything but her son’s happi- 
ness ? 

The father was not so easily won over. M. Eomanet, a no- 
tary of Mantes, had, early in life, succeeded his father; in 
thirty years he had amassed a pretty large fortune, with the 
greatest honesty, and without attempting to become rich too 
quickly, he had increased his wealth little by little. 

To be rich was very agreeable to him, as it would be to most 
others; but to be esteemed, to know that nothing, not even the 
slightest stain, sullied the ermine of his robe, to feel that the 
respect that he enjoyed was only justice, and above all, to know 
that wherever his name was mentioned it could be only with 
true reverence, was one of the greatest pleasures that swelled 
the heart of this honest man. 

What, then, was more natural than for such a father to wish the 
same career for his son, surrounded by the same honors, but — as 
everything nowadays is accomplished more quickly than in the 
days of our predecessors— less work and more time for rest — 
and to enjoy his prosperity. 

Yet M. Eomanet, while professing these principles, had felt 
that to be the notary of Mantes, from which position he 
would soon retire, could not be his son’s ideal. He had nomi- 
nally preserved his profession by having many assistants, be- 
cause he could not easily renounce the dearest wish of his life; 
he held out the hope to Lucien that, if he did not like Mantes, 
he would arrange for him to live in Paris. 

The first time that Mme. Eomanet indicated to her husband, 
by a discreet word, that her son’s taste was wholly for painting, 
he frowned. 

“Painting,” said he, “is an honest and agreeable pastime, but 
it would be foolish to adopt it for a profession. You have made 
a mistake, my dear wife.” 

J^atiently, giving in one day only to broach the subject again 


WILD OATS. 


9 


on the morrow, Mnie. Romanet laid siege to lier husband: her 
maternal love furnished her with arguments which would have 
surprised herself, even, if she could have rex:alled them after- 
ward. Her tenderness and her good sense led her to speak of 
the drawbacks of an uncongenial vocation, and to that M. 
Romanet found no reply — retrenching himself in impregnable 
silence. 

Upon the advice of his mother, Lucien no longer spoke of his 
ys^orks; not that he made any mystery of them, but he was await- 
ing a favorable opportunity. Besides, not pleased with what he 
had done since his return, he was happy that nobody asked to 
see his studies. 

He could often be seen, a little before nightfall, on the bridge 
which unites the two branches of the Seine. A portable easel 
and a canvas under his arm, he directed his steps toward the 
eastern extremity of the island, where he installed himself in 
the grass near where the two arms of the stream met. 

The ladies and young girls of the village had often tried 
to stop him in his walk. Amiable and polite though he was, he 
smiled and continued his way without turning around. The 
curious, pretty girls wanted to go to see what he was painting 
there; but dare they go so far under the eyes of all the town? 
Thanks to that prudent reflection, the secret of Lucien’s work 
was guarded. 

One day, as bright and clear as the one after his return, he 
presented himself at about two o’clock at Mme. Oriiet’s. It was 
one of the days in which they did not go to Paris to attend 
lessons, and he found the mother and daughter both leaning to- 
gether over a large frame, as they were embroidering a design 
worthy of the hands of Queen Mathilde, who made the Bayeux 
tapestry. 

It is no longer the fashion in our day, and such embroidery is 
left to the hands of skillful workmen; but what is more charm- 
ing to the eye of a spectator than the movements of an elegant, 
young woman bending over the outstretched canvas ? 

The hand holding the needle raising or lowering it with 
graceful gestures; the pensive head inclined toward the colored 
frame, as the wools and silks form patches of brilliant or somber 
color on the general tone of the work. 

While looking at this home-picture, Lucien understood that 
landscape painting, which now absorbed him, w’OLild not always 
satisfy him. But he had come here for something else than to 
think of Velasquez. 

“Good-day, Lucien,” said Mme. Orliet gayly. “What have 
you under your left arm ?” 

Since the first day of his return, when Mme. Orliet had ral- 
lied him before her daughter, she had tried to be friendly toward 
him. Surprised a moment by that vague jealousy which the 
best of women and the most tender of mothers could not help 
feeling when she saw, or thought she saw’, a new sentiment 
enter her child’s heart, of which sentiment she w’as not the 
object, Annie’s mother had shaken pfl that bad impression. 


10 


WILD OATS. 


first by reasoniag and then by her great generosity of soul. 
Thenceforth the young man was always welcome at her house. 

“ If I should tell you what I bring,” said Lucien, seating him- 
self, “you would tell me to go away at once. So I will not tell 
you till by and by, when I shall be ready to oblige you.” 

“What great prudence,” said Annie, raising her needle in the 
air to the end of the thread of silk thrown over her little finger 
as if the hand and the whole body were waiting for a reply. 

“ I wish first to ask you if you do not want to take a walk on 
the shore of the island, like the first evening of my return; do 
you remember ?” 

A slight blush colored that part of the cheek that Lucien could 
see. Annie, with her head lowered, continued to attentively 
count her stitches. 

“For us to take a walk? For what?” asked Mme. Orliet 
absently, as she tried to match two skeins of wool. 

“ Firstly, to take a walk in a hygienic point of view, as is es- 
sential in fine weather, and to-day it is superb; and then I have 
an idea that we should go to see the red sun set in the green 
sky, which is, you know, the ne plus ultra of picturesque enjoy- 
ment.” 

“I had intended to devote the whole afternoon to my tapes- 
try,” said Mme. Orliet, laying; down her skeins with a aiseour- 
aged air; “ but I cannot find the shade that I want, and that de- 
stroys my work. What do you say, Annie, about going to the 
end of the island ?” 

“ I do not say ‘ no,’ ” said the latter, working very rapidly. 

Suddenly her wool broke; who can tell why ? And the young 
girl raised her smiling face toward the friend of her childhood. 
She leaned upon her frame, searching among her silks for the 
one that she wanted; but before she found it, she stopped and re- 
mained pensive, and her face grew a little paler than usual. 

“Ah, well, Annie, go and get ready,” said Mme. Orliet, ris- 
ing. 

“Put on your gray velvet dress, I beg,” said Lucian, with a 
hesitating smile. 

“ My best dress! Why?” 

“ To please me — and besides, I have an idea — you shall see!” 

“ Will you show me what you have inside there ?” she asked, 
pointing to the box which Lucien had not put down. 

“ Yes.” 

The young people looked at each other and smiled. There had 
been such confidence between them for years, that they were al- 
ways sure of understanding each other. 

The two ladies were soon ready, and they commenced their 
walk. The mystery of their first return in the darkness had 
nothing in common with the daylight which pierced through 
the trunks of the trees in the beautiful paths, and whose large 
proportions were well shaded. It was like another world; they 
took the path by the shore to enjoy the light. The sun was rap- 
idly declining. 

At last they arrived at the end of the island, and Lucien con- 
ducted them to t]ie place where he had found them, A little 


WILD OATS. 11 

boy seated on a stone was taking care of the easel and the paint- 
box. 

With an indefinite fear of being refused, the young man ap- 
proached Annie. 

“ Would you,” said he timidly, “ phace yourself there, and re- 
main still for a few moments? I wish,” he added, turning to- 
ward Mme. Orliet, “to get the profile of — he hesitated, 
and for the first time in his life he called her mademoiselle — “ of 
Mademoiselle Annie in this landscape, which you thought so 
beautiful. See, the daylight is disappearing and it will be like 
the last time.” 

“But, seriously, are you going to make a picture?” asked 
Mme. Orliet, surprised to see the young man prepare his colors 
in asomewhat nervous manner. 

“Alas!” replied he laugiiing — “ you will allow me, will you 
not?” 

“I do not ask anything better. But what can you do with a 
landscape that is fast disappearing, and a model which is hardly 
visible ?” 

“ I will soon show you if Annie will remain there for ten 
minutes. No, not now, I beg of you!” on seeing the movement of 
the two ladies to look at the small canvas that he had just 
placed upon the easel. 

Annie, trembling with a singular emotion, stationed herself on 
the border of the yellow lawn. 

“ Your head a little more back,” said Lucien. “ Thanks.” 

She remained thus, hardly breathing; experienciug a strange 
sensation, in which mingled a great respect for the work of 
which she was the object. She had no desire to laugh, she felt 
more like weeping, but her tears would not have been painful. 

After a while, Lucien, who had worked ardently, told her 
she could rest. She seated herself at some distance on a large 
stone, and looked at the water which was flowing rapidly to- 
ward unknown shores. 

“It is like the future,” she said to herself. “The water does 
not know where it is going, neither do we. And nevertheless 
we go quickly, always in liaste, awaiting to-morrow with im- 
patience, because it may bring us some pleasure — and we never 
return to the shore where we have enjoyed happiness.” 

An almost painful melancholy seized her soul. Annie looked 
at the stream, the trees, the sky which had become red, as if they 
were the witnesses of a passage in her life that she wished tb 
retain forever. 

“ Will you place yourself there again just a moment?” said the 
voice of Lucien., 

She arose immediately and resumed her place. He worked a 
few moments, then he said to her, “ Thanks.” Soon she ap- 
proached the easel, behind which her mother was standing, and 
remained silent. 

The canvas was not large, the artist was scarcely yet pro- 
ficient in his profession, but the impress of that twilight which 
had produced such an effect upon them all was there. The land- 
scape with it? deep mysteries, the yeiied l%ht of the sky, the 


12 


WILD OATS. 


somber and elegant profile of the young girl, formed a delicious 
whole that carried the soul further toward the unknown re- 
gions to which one is ever eager to return. 

“Do you know, that is very good!” said Mme. Orliet, leaning 
her hand on the young man’s shoulder. 

“ Do you think so ?” said he with a little shiver of joy. 

“ It is extraordinarily well done!” 

She looked at it in silence. Annie went close to her, and 
looked also, her hands and her chin leaning on her mother’s 
shoulder. 

“ I am not wholly ignorant of painting,” said Mme. Orliet, 
“and I declare that that is very well done. Not that it is without 
defects, but there is an originality about it that individualizes even 
the defects. It is astonishing that you could have done that-;; ” 

“ I have worked at it since my return,” said Lucien, with a 
timidity of which he had never suspected himself capable. “ I 
made a sketch of Annie from memory, but I wanted to see her 
here again to catch the right tone.” 

The day faded. Lucien quietly collected his materials, which 
he confided to the boy, and took his canvas in his hand. 

Annie had not said a word. 

“ Does it please you, too?” murmured he, without looking at 
her. 

“ Yes,” said the young girl, in a low tone. 

Silence reigned among them: evening came, they could 
scarcely see enough to distinguish colors. 

“Will you sing as you did the last time?” asked Lucien. 

“I cannot,” answered the young girl, in a choked voice. 

“ Let us return,” said Mme. Orliet; “ it is very cold.” 

They went back toward the town. Mme. Orliet could not 
recover her astonishment. It was in vain to question Lucien 
about the first works in his vocation, that only revealed to her 
the material side, not the moral character of this instinctive art. 

“ It is a \ ocation,” said she, at last. “ When one has that, he 
is a painter, and a true one.” 

“Do you think so?” said Lucien, filled with a proud joy. 

“ Positively. And what do your parents say about it ?” 

“ My mother wishes just as I wish, but it is different with my 
father. He considers art in general as a profession for idle peo- 
ple. If you could only s])eak for me! Do you know, you are 
the oracle at our house ?” 

“I will certainly do it, and without delay,” replied Mme. 
Orliet. “It would be a great pity not to allow you to follow 
your inclination. You will never accept any other profession; 
what you seek is art — pure art. Certainly you must be a painter: 
a good painter, instead of a bad notary ! Can they hesitate? But 
your father is not aware of the talent that you have; that is why 
be does not consent. I will see him very soon ; you may depend 
upon me.” ' • 

She gave her hand to the young man and they went toward 
the Orliet mansion, while he, dazzled with a result which sur- 
passed his hopes, looked at her as he went away, with his heart 


WILD OATS. 13 

full of gratitude which could not find words. Suddenly Annie 
turned around. 

It was wholly dark: the light of the lamp which fell upon her 
person, defined its singularly graceful outlines. Lucien felt a 
great throb of joy and tenderness toward that elegant and 
somber figure which fled before his look. 

“Annie! dear Annie!” thought he, “it is for you that I have 
ambition, it is you who inspire me! Dearly loved one!” 

He looked around the island, now perfectly dark, which 
formed a black, majestic mass above the brilliant water. 

“ How I love her!” said he, suddenly forgetting himself. This 
truth revealed itself to him in all its intensity. “ I love her! I 
love her!” he repeated to himself two or three times. The music 
of this word harmonized with his joy. 

Lucien’s was not a commonplace soul, nor one of those who 
possessing particular gifts profaned them, or lessened them by 
leading a more or less coarse life. 

The sentiment w’hich possessed him was the first that had 
spoken to his heart. The few emotions that he had experienced 
before this had vanished into dust before the splendor of this 
new aurora. In feeling that he loved, he understood that he 
had never loved before, and life appeared to him a marvelous 
edifice, the threshold of which he had not yet crossed. 

On this threshold stood Annie, in bridal vestments, extending 
her hand to him. He knew that she would give him her hand. 
At the same time that he discovered his own love, he divined 
that of the young girl. 

“ Will they give her to me?” asked he of himself, troubled, 
momentarily, in this vision of happiness. “ Yes! since we love 
each other!” his youth triumphantly replied. 

And he returned to his room, his body worn out with fatigue, 
his spirit no longer dwelling upon earth. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The big clock at the Romanets’ struck happy hours that even- 
ing. 

After a delicate dinner had been cleared away, and the table 
covered with a large purple woolen cloth, according to the 
custom of the country, the guests remained seated in the pleas- 
ant warmth of the great chimney, where an old beech log was 
burning. 

Groups formed, little by little, according to tastes and ages. A 
dozen persons in all had come to partake of this Christmas feast, 
all old friends of the family. Annie and Lucien alone repre- 
sented the new generation; naturally they were seated near each 
other. , , . , 

Yet they hardly spoke. Formerly then: chattering never 
ceased, and even when on the threshold, to go into the street, 
they remembered some important thing that they had forgotten, 
and returned to tell; for some days they had been constantly to- 
gether, but now they seemed mute, and their looks were ab- 
sent. 


14 


WILD OATS, 


What passed between them during this time, each one felt, 
but did not like to tell. What words are sufficiently delicate to 
depict sentiments that are as tender, as delicate as the first 
blushes of dawn in the morning splendor ? 

They loved each other, but from time to time they appeared 
not even sure of it; a delicious uneasiness would suddenly seize 
them, and they would ask themselves if in such a look, in such a 
smile they had not been mistaken. Should they question each 
other? They dared not think of it without fright. What if then- 
hopes should fall shattered at their feet, like a fragile crystal 
bowl thrown down by an impatient hand I 

And yet, from their slightest gestures, from their voices, from 
their looks which avoided each other, from the fleeting changes 
of color in their faces, they were led to the ardent and deep con- 
viction that they loved each other. 

To love and not to know whether one is beloved is almost as 
sweet as reciprocated love, for it is the doubt that gives pleas- 
ure. 

Love took hold of their beings gently, without any shock, like 
a thread entwining itself around a finger. They felt their hearts 
touched by an invisible and gentle hand, which led them to each 
other, little by little, producing in them such sweet ecstasies 
that they dared not move, fearing to disturb them. They had 
no need to look at each other; w-ith eyes cast down, each 
felt the other’s presence; a fold of Annie’s dress, the end of 
Lucien’s sleeve was enough for both. 

These two pure souls had nothing to conceal. Annie did not 
fear to be seen in full daylight. Lucien had done nothing in 
his short life which should cause him to blush; they waited, side 
by side — for what ? They did not know. The ray of light which 
could perhaps illumine this delicious twilight of their hearts, 
perchance would unite their hands, perchance it would call 
forth the word which would seal their destinies. 

Their parents and friends, accustomed to see them together, 
were not surprised at their intimacy. When addressed, they an- 
swered. Sometimes one answered for the other; but then, in- 
stead of laughing, as formerly, when they looked at each other 
they smiled without raising their eyes, and each understood this 
furtive and tender smile on the face of the other. 

They talked gayly of the Christmas gifts. Although no longer 
a child, one has long foregone the joys of life if he can pass that 
season without experiencing the pleasure of sui-prising and being 
surprised. Each told what he intended to give. M. Eomanet 
allowed himself to be teased by two or three of his friends, but 
he absolutely refused to tell what he intended for his wife. 

Mme. Orliet interrupted him suddenly; 

“ And what will you give Lucien?” said she. 

“A big boy like him does not want Christmas gifts. He 
should give them to me, I think.” 

All eyes were turned toward the young man. 

“ That idea has not yet come to me,”j|said he, “ for I still have 
the habits of the very young, my dear father. But I will try to 
correct them.” 


WILD OATS. 15* 

“Shall I tell you what you should give your son?” said 
Mme. Orliet. 

“ I ask nothing better, provided it will not be too expensive.” 

“It will cost you nothing.” 

“Granted, then. What is it?” 

“ I will tell you to-morrow, about eleven o’clock, my old 
friend,” replied Annie’s motlier, “ if you will come to see me.” 

“ Very well,” said the notary, who thought that some debt of 
his son, concealed from his parents, had been confessed to this 
family friend. He felt himself in a very indulgent mood. The 
presence of so many good friends around him, the joyous at- 
mosphere of the room, his pride as a host, all combined to 
make him self-satisfied and complacent. 

“ And what will you give me?” said Lucien to Annie, in a low 
tone. 

A ray of innocent, affected spite darted into the young girl’s 
eyes. 

“ Nothing at all,” said she. “ And what are you going to give 
me?” 

“ That is a secret.” 

She looked at him, laughing, and suddenly her eyes became 
troubled. The had just read in those of Lucien a passionate 
tenderness that she had never known before and with which she 
was dazzled. 

“ Tell me!” said sljie, trying to conceal her emotion. 

“ Do you wish it?” 

“I beg of you.” 

Nothing can describe the tone in which these two common- 
place phrases were pronounced. A whole oath of fidelity — a 
declaration were exchanged in them. 

“You will not tell anybody; not even your mother?” 

“ Do not ask me that,” said Annie, softly. 

“ Be it so. I will not ask you to keep the secret, but I know 
that you will keep it. I wish to give you my little landscape of 
the island.” 

“Do you not wish to keep it?” said Annie, quickly and 
anxiously, divided between her joy in having him offer her 
what she prized most in the world, and regret to think that 
Lucien cared so little for it that he would let it go away from 
him. 

“I have made a copy of it,” said the young man, in a low 
tone. 

Annie closed her eyes, but she saw reflected within herself the 
look with which Lucien had accompanied these words. 

She did not dare reply, and turned her head toward her 
mother. 

That lady was astonished at the expression of the young face, 
and approached the young girl to examine her more closely. 

“ What is the matter with you ?” said she, leaning forward to 
embrace her. 

Annie smiled, blushed, and returned the kiss. 

“Nothing, mamma,” said she. 

Mme. Orliet still questioned the face of the coy girl, who had 


16 


WILD OAT^. 


turned toward her, lending herself to this examination. Lucien, 
somewhat embarrassed, had left his place and had gone over to 
the older people; Annie’s mother seated herself near her child, 
whom she did not leave till they took their departure. 

In the vestibule, where they went for their wraps, the young 
man appeared with the two ladies’ cloaks, which he had put 
aside. He helped them to put them on, and then wished them ' 
good-night. Mmei Orliet gave him her hand as usual; Annie 
held out only the tips of her fingers, then drew them back, hes- 
itatingly. ]&e hardly touched the little, chilled hand, but all 
night, in his waking and in his dreams, he felt the tender, mo- 
mentary contact. 

The next day, about eleven o’clock, M. Romanet presented 
himself at his old friend’s house. Although he had a great affec- 
tion for her, he seldom saw her at her own house, he preferred 
to see her seated before the chimney of his own dining-room; 
besides, his visits to the Orliet mansion seemed very ceremonious 
to him. 

He was ushered into the large drawing-room, the wood-work 
of which was white, embossed with gold, and which was hung 
with superb tapestries; all was at the same time sumptuous and 
cheerful in this hospitable house, even the fire seemed to send 
forth a welcome in its joyous crackling. 

M. Romanet mechanically approached the fireside, then turned 
around, and took in at a glance all the surroijndings. 

“Hm, hm,” said he, ‘‘all this is more beautiful than at my 
house. Except my old dining-room wainscoted in oak, I have 
nothing at my house of any real value; but notwithstanding the 
beautiful mansion, and the three farms of my good friend, lam 
probably as rich as she. All my money will go to Lucien, all of 
hers will go to her daughter. Our children will have nothing to 
complain of.” 

His friend entered, dressed in a simple yet rich home costume. 
He kissed her hand and then looked at her from head to foot in 
farcical admiration. 

“You wish to win me over to your cause? And is your cause 
so bad that you make yourself so very beautiful in order to turn 
my head ?” laughed he. 

“Precisely,” said Mme. Orliet in the same tone. 

She struck the iron while it was hot, not wishing to lose any 
of the good nature that her guest appeared to have brought with 
him. 

The struggle was long and bitterly contested. In the cham- 
ber above, Annie listened to the sound of their voices with great 
anxiety — she could not distinguish the words. Lucien’s fut- 
ure had become a vital question to her. If he should be pre- 
vented from following his inclination, she felt that she should 
suffer as much as he. M. Romanet’s voice sometimes ex- 
ploded like a trumpet. That was when he found some peremp- 
tory objection, some unanswerable argument. 

In the silence which follow'ed, Mme. Orliet’s clear, sweet 
voice, plead like a strain of melody after the thundering of 
a whole orchestra, and Annie, whose heart beat quickly, re- 


WILD OATS. 


17 


proached herself for listening ; still she heard nothing, though 
lier ear was on the watch for the slightest sound from below. 

At last the two voices were hushed, then they seemed in uni- 
son like a duo, and the drawing-room door opened into the vesti- 
bule. 

“ You can truly say that it is to please you,” said M. Romanet. 

“ You knew that you could not refuse me that,” responded 
Mme. Orliet. 

“Evidently; but is the bargain concluded? If the opinion 
should be unfavorable, the subject must not be mentioned to 
me again.” 

“ And if it should be favorable, you will make no further ob- 
j’ections ?” 

“ It must be, since you have my word !” said the notary sigh- 
ing. “ And this pretty girl, where is she ? Let her come that I 
may kiss her.” 

Annie descended the staircase as lightly as a willow leaf, be- 
fore her mother had time to call her, and threw herself upon the 
neck of the old man, whom she embraced with all her heart, as 
she had done ten years ago. He said some affectionate words 
to her, and went away after a last promise. 

“ Well,” said Annie, who had remained motionless, looking at 
the door which had just been closed. 

“ He has promised to* defer to the judgment of two painters, 
my friends, who will tell him whether his son ought or ought 
not to adopt the profession of an artist. And one could not rea- 
sonably expect more from the first skirmish.” 

Annie’s little face lengthened. 

“Only that?” she said, sadly. “We have not advanced 
much.” 

“Dear me,” said her mother, smiling, “you wish everything 
all at once! Such is not life, my darling; you must learn to 
wait.” 

To wait! That is the most difficult thing in the world. To 
renounce what you wish with your whole soul, to ke(?p your eyes 
from a door >vhich will not open to you for a long time, perhaps 
to shut your ears to external noises, which will announce to you 
far off in the future— you know not when — the event which you 
desire or fear; to remain passive, deaf, insensible and mute, 
when your body and your soul are struggling in this constraint, 
until silence and immobility become an intolerable torture. 

Youth waits with impatience; age is less exacting, because 
it pretends to be more patient. Is it not rather because the vital 
forces are less ? Do we ever learn to wait? We learn, perhaps, 
more easily to suffer. 

Yet Annie waited. 

Six (lays passed before the painters appointed a day to give 
their judgment. On the day fixed Mme. Orliet, M. Romanet 
and M. Lucien, who did not say a word, departed for Paris, in 
order to hear them pronounce the verdict which would decide 
the young man’s future. 

A thousand obstacles met them everywhere. It was about 
three o’clock, in the last light of a beautiful winter’s day, under 


18 


WILD OATS, 


the skylight of a great studio, that the judges chosen by Mme. 
Orliet, after having examined ten of his studies and the little 
landscape of the end of the island, looked at each other in 
silence. 

Then one of them addressed to M.«Romanet this question, 

“ Monsieur, has your son a fortune ?” 

“ I have one,” replied the notary haughtily. 

“Ah, well!” said the other painter, “then let him follow his 
vocation. Upon my soul and conscience, I declare to you, that 
if he will work, he will excel. But he has everything to learn.” 

“If he were without a fortune,” said the first, “ I should ad- 
vise you to dissuade him; but since he can wait, and he wishes 
to paint, let him do it.” 

At the same time conquered and satisfied, M. Romanet 
thanked the judges, and led his son out on the staircase. 

They were scarcely alone before he seized him by the neck. 

“You have talent,” said he. “It is true then! Embrace 
me!” 

Mme. Orliet who had remained behind to obtain a more cat- 
agorical opinion, found them thus occupied. 

“iWell?” said she to the father, “ are you satisfied?” 

“I?” replied he, “I am furious! Behold this young rascal, 
who upsets all my plans, who has just destroyed the future that 
I had laid out for him, and you wish me to be satisfied!” 

“ Really, you were not going to bite him just now, were you ?” 
said Mme. Orliet, who could not help laughing. 

“ Since he has talent, that flatters me, you understand. But 
do not believe that being fiattered will prevent my being much 
vexed!” 

Grumbling and beaming with joy, he reached Mantes, where 
the friends hastened to communicate the result of their inter- 
view to Mme. Romanet. 

Lucien contented himself with pressing Mme. Orliet’s hand 
very warmly, as he could find no words to express his feelings. 

When they entered the notary’s house, the young man ran 
directly to his mother, and embraced her with such force that 
she had no need to ask any explanation. A moment of confu- 
sion followed, then Mme. Orliet asked if Annie had been there. 

“She came in a while ago for a moment,” replied Mme. 
Romanet; “ I was such a sad companion, as you can believe, 
that she went away.” 

Mme. Orliet left immediately, and refusing the escort of 
either Lucien or her father, returned to her house alone. 


CHAPTER V. 

The light of the lamp shone from the young girl’s window; as 
soon as her mother entered she went up the stairs, almost un- 
easy at not seeing her daughter come to meet her, as she usually 
did, at the sound of the door-bell. 

The door of Annie’s room was open, she was standing there, 
waiting. 

. We bave won,” said Mnie. Orliet joyously, 


WILD OATS. 


19 


With a cry of joy, Annie threw herself upon her mother’s 
neck and burst into tears. 

Mme. Orliet took her by the waist, and held her from her 
to look at her. 

“What is it?” said she anxiously, and almost guessing the 
truth. 

“ Oh, mamma,” said the young girl, unconsciously betraying 
her secret, “if he had been forbidden to follow his vocation I 
think we should have both died of grief.” 

Mme. Orliet took off her hat, unhooked her cloak, and threw 
it back, then she led her daughter to a small sofa. 

“ Do you love him as much as that ?” said she, deeply troubled 
at the thought of that formidable unknown Love, which had 
entered into the life of her only child. 

“ After you, mamma, I love nobody more than Lucien. You 
know it well!” said the girl, trying to find plausible reasons for 
her tenderness. “ He was my companion in childhood; and 
you, too, mamma, you love him well!” 

Mme. Orliet shook her head. 'Whether she had or had not 
a feeling of friendship for this young man, he had not the less 
become her rival in a heart of which until then, she had been 
the passionately loved idol. 

“Does it vex you, mamma?” asked the young girl timidly, 
ceasing to caress her mother. 

At that question, Madame Orliet remained silent, and Annie’s 
arms, as she withdrew them from her neck, seemed to take off 
her daughter’s heart with them. 

“ No,” said she, with a sort of jealous anger, “ that does not 
make me an^y.” 

“ But it grieves you, nevertheless; tell me?” insisted Annie. 

“ Yes,” murmured the mother, and, pressing her child to her 
heart, she burst into tears. 

This troubled moment passed, and they found themselves 
seated side by side holding each other’s hands. Mme. Orliet, 
after »having reassured her, gently questioned her daughter 
upon the affection which she had for Lucien. 

Nothing was more innocent or more pure. She had always 
loved him. When children, they had developed the same tastes 
and the same habits; youth, although separating them, had en- 
deared their rarer meetings to them. Then Lucien had become 
a young man; she had been slightly afraid of him, fearing lest 
he would no longer care for her; when he had gone away to his 
regiment she was a little sorrowful, saying to herself that upon 
his return he would have other thoughts, and that then the 
Orliet mansion would not be the same thing to him. 

“And then?” asked the mother, who listened, smilingly, not 
without brushing away an occasional tear, which Annie, who 
was buried in her arms, could not see. 

“ Then, when he came to seek us down there, at the end of 
the island, I knew well that our house had never been forgotten, 
and — I was very happy. It was delightful, then, mamma; he 
came to us from time to time, and it gave me great pleasure to 
meet him; an4 when he did not come, I was very sure that he 


2C 


WILD OATS. 


was thinking of us all the same. And then that day, when he 
took me down there to finish the picture, I understood suddenly 
that it was no longer the same as it was before; he has never 
said to me a word of what he thinks, but — I am sure — it seems 
to me, at least, that it is not the same thing. Christmas-eve he 
did not say two words to me; well, yet I knew that he was 
thinking of us all the time!” 

She said “ us,” trying thus to take away what was too personal 
in this recital of her impressions, and from time to time she 
raised her clear, gray eyes to her mother, but she immediately 
lowered them, when she saw her saddened look. 

When she was silent, she took Mme. Orliet’s finger, upon 
which she wore her wedding-ring, and respectfully kissed it, 
after which she buried her face in her adored mother’s hands 
and threw herself upon her knees. 

Mme. Orliet counseled her daughter. Her youth came to her 
lips while she taught her prudence, and modesty, and patience, 
which protect against all deceptions. She had little advice to 
give her, and nothing for which to defend her, for Annie was as 
innocent, as pure as the snow-flakes which were falling from 
the sky at that moment. The virgin soul of the young girl 
could not understand doubt or trouble. She loved, she believed 
herself to be beloved, and she dreamed of nothing beyond that. 

“ Only,” said Mme. Orliet, “ it is not necessary to say anything 
to him about it.” 

“ And,” said Annie, pushing aside her hair to see her mother 
better, and blushing, “ if he should ask me ?” 

Worldly wisdom, maternal prudence, how insignificant you 
are in comparison to the cry of a young heart which ignores 
you, and which flies away from jmu, as a swallow, born in the 
spring-time, tries the strength of its wings. 

How should she reply to this ? Advise her to use the hypocrisy 
of a coquette ? 

Mme. Orliet had no such thought. 

“ Try to avoid it,” said she; “ but if it should happen, do not 
reply.” 

Not to reply would be an eloquent consent; but the excellent 
mother hoped to have time to avoid, momentarily at least, what 
she could not wholly prevent. 

She would speak to Lucien— she would know if this love had 
the same importance to him that it had for Annie. She thought 
them both very young; it could not possibly be a question of 
marrying yet; time would only confirm the attachment, if it was 
really serious. 

She thought of all this in the sweet silence which followed 
this overflowing of heart, between these two who loved each 
other so sincerely. They had to go to dinner, and then all con- 
fidential conversation was necessarily interrupted. 

After the repast, the two women returned to the small draw- 
ing-room, where they usually spent their evenings; each took 
her needlework, more from habit than from any serious desire 
to work. The door closed on the footman, and they looked at 


WILD OATS, 21 

each other with a smile, and then resumed their interrupted 
chat. 

The door-bell rang, and Lucien’s voice was beard in the ante- 
room. Mme. Orliet glanced around her; it was impossible to 
send her daughter away without meeting the young man. She 
understood, by his firm footsteps, she knew not what, but some- 
thing that was surely important. 

He entered rapidly and ran up to her. 

“ I wish much to thank you,” said he with such warmth that 
all the conventional barriers that Mme. Orliet had intended to 
raise were immediately thrown aside. 

He took her in his arms, as if she had been his mother, and 
embraced her with all his heart. She let him do so, smiling, 
overcome by that frank emotion which gives so much pleasure 
to those who see it when they themselves have passed the age 
to experience it. 

He looked at her again a moment, his eyes full of gratitude; 
then he turned toward Annie. 

She had remained standing, motionless, her eyes lowered, her 
face flushed. 

“ Have you nothing to say,” said he, “ are you not pleased ?” 

Oh, yes,” she replied, raising her beautiful, luminous and 
tender eyes to his face. 

In this look he read all that she had said to her mother, and 
somethiug more, of which she was not conscious herself, what 
her betrothed husband, and no one else, should read there. 

“Annie,” cried ^e, stretching out his arms to her, “1 adore 
you!” 

She did not approach; he did hot take a step toward her, but 
clasped his hands, which he stretched out to her. 

Mme. Orliet had not made a gesture or said a word. 

“You are grace and joy; you are life, you are love,” said he 
to her, as if he were addressing a prayer to some immaculate 
saint. “You are everything that is good and charming in this 
world, mv little sister in the past, my friend and wife in the 
future, bo you not wish it?” added he, turning around to Mme. 
Orliet with his hands still clasped. 

“I do not know anything about it,” said the latter. “You 
have a way of taking people by surprise that takes their breath 
away. Remember, my child, that you have just been absolutely 
absurd.” 

“ I know it,” said Lucien, kissing her hands with effusion, 
“ but you have done so much for me that I should consider my- 
self dishonest if I did not tell you what I feel. I have said 
nothing of this to her, except in your presence; you understand 
that I am an honest man.” 

“An honest child, rather,” replied Mme. Orliet. 

Lucien cast down his eyes; his youth was an argument 
against him, and one that he could not contradict. Annie, who 
until now had remained motionless and silent, took a step to- 
ward him and said in a clear voice: 

“ Do not be sad.” 


22 


WILD OATS. 


He looked at her; she was near her mother, who rapidly 
twined her arms around her. i- .^i ^ 

“ Be reasonable,” said Mme. Orliet, seating herself without 
leaving her daughter. “You are going to be married, Lucien, 
and you know enough of life to know all the drawbacks of a 
long engagement. Have you reflected well ? Are you not sim- 
ply imprudent and led away more by your heart than by your 
head ? Think, my child, that it is not only your own happiness 
that you are playing with, it is that of my only daughter, my 
only joy ” 

Her voice failed her. Lucien threw himself upon his knees 
before her. 

“I have always loved her,” he said, with ardor. “I know 
enough of life, as you have said, to know that she alone can be 
my companion, my wife. I am young, it is true. But, then, w-e 
shall have all the more time in which to be happy.” 

The vision of her own happiness, so quickly removed from 
her, brought tears to the widow’s eyes. 

“ But,” said she, smiling through her tears, “ it is only to-day 
that you renounced an independent career, to adopt a profes- 
sion that will compel you to depend upon your father for the 
means of existence, and this is the day that you chose to ask 
my daughter in marriage!” 

“I did not come expressly for that,” murmured Lucien, some- 
what confusedly. 

Annie raised her pretty head, which had reclined on her 
mother’s shoulder, and looked at the latter with a supplicating 
air: 

“ Oh, mother!” said she, “ am I not rich enough for both ?” 

Mme. Orliet had no defense; she embraced her daughter ten- 
derly and looked at the young man at her feet. 

“ Your father will put obstacles in your way!” said she. 

That was as much as to say, clearly, that she would no longer 
do so. Lucien understood it so and, without useless discussion, 
said to her in a low tone, “ Thanks!” 

Then he seated himself opposite the two women, and all three 
remained silent, full of grave thoughts. Annie had not left her 
refuge. Occasionally she looked at Lucien, then turned her eyes 
toward her mother, and no one, herself least of all, could tell 
what dreams of unheard-of happiness passed through her mind 
during this silence. 

“It cannot be for a long time yet,” said Mme. Orliet, at last. 

“ Oh, why?” asked Lucien in the tone of a prayer. 

“ Because — for a thousand reasons, the best of which is, that 
a young man of twenty-two should not marry.” 

*“ Do you believe that I shall be any better at twenty-five?” he 
asked. 

“Perhaps not better; but probably wiser.” 

“Then you think that I should become a prey to all possible 
tortures for three years before gaining paradise?” said he. 
“Will it be your charitable hands that will cast me into this 
furnace ?” 


WILD OATS, 23 

There is much to say about that,” said Mme. Orliet, ‘‘we 
will talk it over at our leisure,” 

“You will influence my father in this?” said Lucien, joy- 
ously. 

“ Am I to do it all ? Do you know that the part that you as- 
sign me does not please me at all? And by and by you will 
accuse me of interesting myself too much in your affairs.” 

“ Oh!” exclaimed both the young people at once. 

Then they all began to laugh. 

“Come; go home,” said Mme. Orliet; “we have had emo- 
tion enough for one day. We will leave the rest for to-mor- 
row.” 

Lucien went out of the little drawing-droom regretfully, after 
having kissed the widow’s hand. Annie looked at her mother, 
and divining that she would not be forbidden, advanced toward 
the threshold. She presented her hand to the young man, with 
a timid gesture. He took it and kissed it with so much respect, 
BO much tenderness, that Mme. Orliet was affected. Annie re- 
turned to her mother. The moment that he put his foot on the 
terrace, he was assailed by a gust of snow and hail; he turned 
around and saw in the frame of the open lighted door the 
charming group of the two women: Annie, with her arms 
around her mother’s neck, her head thrown a little back with 
the grace of a child. ' She had evidently thanked her with aU 
her heart. 

The door closed and Lucien went away triumphant, under the 
snow. A June sky never seemed to him more brilliant, and the 
snow-flakes which the storm made cling to the glass of the 
lamps, seemed to him like stars. 


CHAPTER VI. 

M. Romanet raged in a fury. 

Firstly, it was absurd, then it was ridiculous, and then it was 
dishonest 1 A gentleman who had just made it impossible to 
earn a cent for himself for years, now wished to be married ! 
What did he expect to live upon ? 

“ Annie said that she had enough for them both,” said Mme. 
Orliet mischievously. 

The notary raved all the more. Did any one suppose that he 
would accept such a situation ? To be supported hy his wife ? 
For whom did they take M. Romanet? Even if his family had 
no title, were they not as good as any of the nobility in the land ? 
This was intended for Mme. Orliet, who had renounced her title 
to marry a commoner, a member of the bar. No one should 
humiliate him, however much they might tempt him. 

“ Then,” replied the mediator, “ let us consider the most im- 
portant questions. Annie has fifteen thousand francs as her 
dowry. What will you give your son ?” 

“Nothing at all!” cried Romanet, furious to have allowed 
himself to be caught in so simple a snare. 

“ That is little, but I will be responsible for the necessary sum,” 
said his beautiful adversary. 


24 


WILD OATS, 


“ Ah 1 1 do not wish that he should marry !” replied the no- 
tary. 

“You may regret this later,” calmly replied Mme. Orliet. 
If you turn your son actually against marriage, you throw him 
into what is called a bachelor’s life, a loose sort of existence 
which may last longer than you wish. In the society of artists, 
which he "will now frequent, manners and customs are, you 
know, not the most severe.” 

“Why did he choose this society and these manners? You 
know very well that he did it against my wishes !” cried the in- 
furiated father 

“ At first ; but you consented afterward, and not without some 
pride to find your son so highly gifted !’’ 

“ But he did not speak to me then of marrying !” 

“ Do you disapprove of his choice?” 

Romanet was a notary in vain; he could not have the last 
Avcrd. After a struggle of two hours, he laid down his weapons; 
he was conquered. 

“But, at least,” said he, as he gave up the contest, “you can- 
not expect that they will marry now. That would be trifling 
with us.” 

“Not now, certainly; very much later.” 

“ That is the first sensible word that I have heard fikJip you 
to-day,” groaned the notary. 

“j^ways gallant!” said" Mme. Orliet, laughing. “’Ah, well, 
when I asked you Christmas-eve what present you were going 
to give your son, you little thought it would be your consent to 
his marriage.” 

“ And Annie,” said the notary, almost good-naturedly. “ How 
long is it since she gave up playing with her doll ?” 

“ Do not be such a grumbler as that! Annie will be afraid of 
you, and will not love you any more?” 

“Let her try it!” said Master Romanet, laughing heartily. 

The next day — the first of the year — there was a brilliant sky. 
The snow which had fallen the preceding days had filled the 
ravines near the hills; it drifted into the fields far and near, and 
gave the ground a curious appearance. The island sparkled 
in the sun like an immense chandelier, seen from above. On 
one side the bare lindens shadowed against the azure sky; on the 
other, a capricious network of trees, curiously interlaced, gave 
an idea of the vegetation of the wild and uncultivated part of 
this otherwise lovely place. 

Lucien went down the Rue de Paris to the Orliet mansion, 
to wish his friends there a happy new year. As hurried as he 
was, when he turned at the quay, he could not avoid stopping to 
admire this admirable winter landscape, and his instinct as a 
landscape painter caused his heart to beat with a throb of pleas- 
ure. 

“ How beautiful it is!” said he to himself. “ And this will be 
eternally beautiful. Earth will always offer me new marvels, 
let winter be icy or summer be fervent — the sky and surroundr 
ings are always varied,” 


WILD OATS, 


25 


His eyes turned toward the Orliet house, the snowy terrace 
of which was sparkling under the sun. 

Art and love! What could one dream of more, to fill out a 
most beautiful life, even were it the longest, the best employed ? 

He walked rapidly toward the house where he was expected. 

His picture, which he had sent in the morning, had the place 
of honor in the embrasure of a window. The two bouquets of 
white lilies which had accompanied it were placed upon a table, 
and perfumed the air of the drawing -room. Annie, dressed in 
white cashmere, bordered with swan’s-down, seemed to him a 
snow-flake fallen from Heaven to please his eye. 

It was with deep emotion, with incomparable felicity, that 
Lucien took in, at a glance, this whole which served as a frame 
for the being whom he loved. All this belonged to him, since 
the hearts of the two women who possessed it denied him noth- 
ing. His artistic sense enhanced the value of all beautiful things, 
and he experienced a greatjoy, void of all common feelings, in 
thinking that this wealth, which could give so many intellectual 
pleasures, was in the hands of beings who were capable of un- 
derstanding and appreciating it. 

This thought passed rapidly through his mind, when Annie 
came to meet him, saying to him, her bright eyes full of tender- 
ness and gayety: 

“I wish you a happy New Year, my betrothed!” 

He kissed her pure forehead and thought of nothing but her. 

‘ ‘ When shall we be entirely happy V he asked Mme. Orliet, 
who held him maternally in her arms. 

“ Ah!” said she, “ there are those who say: ‘ The later the bet- 
ter!’ I am not one of those.” 

“ I know it,” said Lucien. “ You allude to my father. You can- 
not imagine with what a strangely bad grace he tries to make me 
happy! I know it by instinct, and I know what he conceals un- 
der it. I do not trouble myself; I know I should spoil all. But 
you, O my benefactress! tell me, when will you let us be mar- 
ried?” 

“ When I can no longer prevent it,” cried she, laughing. 


CHAPTER VII. 

The projected marriage was kept as secret as possible; and, 
astonishing thing! the secret was kept. Nothing could better 
prove how much Mme. Orliet was loved and respected by her 
servants. 

The two young people then had the exquisite joy of loving 
each other in all secrecy, without blushing for it. Their conver- 
sation was generally in the presence of one of their mothers, but 
sometimes they were alone together. The wisdom of the honest 
women who had brought them up made them confide in them, 
and they did not abuse this confidence. Many times, before 
they loved each other, Annie and Lucien were left together, and 
why should they now, in that atmosphere of avowed love, hurt 
them, temot them, by signs of distrust ? 

They saw each other oftener and with the least constraint in 


26 


WILD OATS. 


the home of the Orliets. At the Romanets’, too, though they 
were very hospitable, there was more formality and ceremony. 
The house was more elegant and at the same time more cheer- 
ful, and there was always a more seductive charm in the pres- 
ence of Mme. Orliet. 

Annie leaned over the large frame and embroidered; opposite 
her Lucien chatted and sometimes sketched, and often stopped 
in a state of delicious idleness, thinking of his happiness. 

This happiness had come so quickly, so easily, that it seemed 
almost a dream, and often while reading Lucien would stop, 
surprised, and ask himself if this were all true. During the days 
that he passed in Paris, in his master’s studio, where he learned 
the great laws of painting, he tried to forget everything but 
Art. Led by his passionate nature to give himself up entirely 
to what interested him, he saw only the model, he troubled him- 
self only with the outline, that tyrannical mistre^ without 
which Art, however curious it may be, is only an incomplete 
reverie. 

At the end of these hours of work, he went away staggering 
under the vertigo of this assiduous labor, with tired eyes and a 
sort of heavy dullness which follows all excessive work. He 
walked for some time in the open air before recovering himself, 
and during this time his thoughts wandered from the labors of 
the day to some landscape seen the day before, and then returned 
again to his master’s lessons. 

The present seemed to him a confused fog from whence 
emerged a few immortal principles, some magnificent outlines, 
some spots of never-to-be-forgotten color. Then he went to the 
St. Lazare Station, and, invariably, Annie’s image appeared to 
him. 

From that moment on he gave himself up to his love. 

That love, so young, already had its memories. Lucien re- 
called, with deep joy, how Annie had looked at him on such a 
day, at such a moment. The dress that she wore, the carriage 
of her head at such a moment, were engraved upon his mem- 
ory and came up before him like a picture by Terberg, in the 
Orliet mansion. 

These memories and these hopes shortened Lucien’s railway 
journey. He arrived at Mantes, happy; in the evening, after 
dinner, while his father buried himself behind a wall of news- 
papers, and his mother knit innumerable stockings for the poor, 
the young man hastened to his friends’ home where he passed an 
hour or two. 

Spring-time came. March had been cold. April was fairy 
like. 

On every side, in the gardens, in the orchards, in the valleys 
by the hillsides, so gently sloping that he knew* he was in Nor- 
mandy, on the banks of the stream, on the borders of the roads 
were the pink blossoms of the apple-trees, A wonderful sun, 
warm and golden, shone in the calm air; the flight of a bird 
made the branches tremble, a shower of white petals fell slowly 
on the lawn, strewn with buttercups; peace and silence held 
their enchanted reign. 


WILD OATS, 


27 


Lucien was so struck with this silence and tranquillity at mid- 
day, that a longing seized him. Without saying anything about 
it, for he never spoke of his works except to those who loved 
him, he set up a large canvas in an orchard that belonged to his 
father, a little outside of the town, and in a week he had finished 
a study that was unequaled in color and in fidelity. 

While he worked everything appeared easy; after he had 
finished, he was frightened. His work seemed valueless to him, 
he ^w only its defects which were enormously magnified. Not 
daring to show it to his father, he appealed to his usual confi- 
dantes, Annie and her mother. 

The air was warmer than usual, the sky more blue, a penetrat- 
ing sweetness seemed to fill the atmosphere, one day when Mme. 
Orliet and her daughter went into the orchard. 

Sheltered by her umbrella, Annie advanced slowly between 
the hedges of white flowei’s. The sun threw shadows of oddly 
interlaced branches upon her dress. 

She was afraid — afraid of everything. What she experienced 
gave her a sensation of exquisite sweetness that she had never 
known before, and which made her almost weep. She was 
afraid to look at Lucien’s pictm*e, which she had dreamed was 
very beautiful; she was afraid, also, of what she really felt* It 
seemed to her that no eye, not even her mother’s, had a right to 
question her agitated face; that no voice should break the silence 
of her soul. She was, perhaps, also afraid of what she was 
going to experience, for she imagined that something very seri- 
ous and inexplicable threatened her. 

She walked along slowly, in the grass, the long stems of which 
bowed before her, and appeared again from under the hem of 
her dress as she passed on ; this light rustling •was the only 
noise in the field except the confused humming of the insects, 
which were startled and sometimes flew against her parasol. 

She stopped when her mother stopped, a little behind her, 
hardly daring to raise her eyes. Lucien was there, more agitated 
than she, but with so grave an air that he appeared calm. She 
did noc look at him, although she saw the slight trembling of 
his nervous fingers. At last Annie raised her head and looked 
at the canvas. 

It was the orchard itself with something less, which was life, 
and something more, which was immortal art, that part of him- 
self w'hich a true artist puts in his work. 

Only a young, happy lover could have painted the Romanet 
orchard with such effusion, with such boldness of color and such 
intensity of sentiment. He could never have known grief, never 
have found anything in his existence but pleasure, and that the 
best, to interpret thus triumphant youth and life. 

“Happy child I” said Mme. Orliet, in her low, harmonious 
voice. “He dared everything and he has succeeded beyond 
everything!* You have made a delicious thing — dazzling and 
sweet. You were born under a happy star; your godmother 
was a fairy truly!” 

“Do you think it is well done?” asked Lucien, in an agitated 
voice. 


28 


WILD OAm, 


“ It is too well done! One fears that you can never do better!’ 

“ Oh, 1 shall do better than that !” cried the young man, in- 
nocently. 

He turned round to find Annie. 

She had let her parasol fall, her hands were hanging lightly 
clasped before her, and she was looking at her betrothed’s work; 
a sweet smile played on her lips, but her eyes smiled still more. 

Lucien approached, and took up her arm, which he placed in 
his. 

And are you pleased?” said he, gently. 

She nodded her head, not daring to reply. 

Mme. Orliet asked the young man some questions, made some 
remarks, and one or two minor criticisms. Lucien said yes to 
aU. The joy of the artist, the intoxication of the place, the 
young girl, and his love had suddenly made him lose his head. 
It seemed to him that Annie was his wife, that she would follow 
him, no matter where, that the world was his kingdom, and 
that this dream would never end. 

“ Let us go away,” said he in a very low tone. 

Annie looked at him surprised and turned away her blushing 
face. 

“Well, ’’-said Mme. Orliet, “what is the matter?” 

She saw at a glance that Lucien was agitated. Uneasy, with- 
out knowing why, she went near her daughter and asked her to 
walk about the field. Annie gently withdrew her arm from 
that of the young man and began to walk near her mother, but 
she no longer saw what was going . oh around her. She, too, 
felt something new enter her troubled soul; she questioned her- 
self, but could not understand her own thought in the midst 
of these sensations. 

They stopped in a shady corner of the field, under some tall 
poplars. Mme. Orliet turned around and looked at the trees, 
laden with white blossoms, so white under the blue sky that the 
eye was dazzled and could not discern their outline: then she 
turned her looks to her daughter. 

More pink and white than the apple blossoms, more tender 
and pure than the clustei s on the cherry-trees, Annie remained 
confused, her eyes almost closed under Lucien’s passionate 
glance, as he stood some steps from her. At this moment they 
only lived for each other. 

A movement from Mme. Orliet startled the young man from 
his waking dream. 

“ Give her to me,” said he, supplicating her with look and gest- 
ure. 

“We will speak of that by and by: this is not the place,” re- 
plied she rather dryly. “ Let us go back to your picture.” 

The charm was broken. 

They returned chattering but awkwardly enough. After 
only a moment’s attention to the canvas, Mme. Orliet wished 
to return home. Lucien asked permission to accompany her, 
which was refused, and she went out of the field with Annie, 
while the young man, left behind, followed them regretfully 
with his eyes. 


WILD OATS, 


29 


Mme. Orliet was displeased. Until then she had lived tran- 
quilly. After the first commotion, caused by the discovery that 
Annie loved, she had remained calm, seeing how much the 
young girl, in giving all her soul to her betrothed, lived in an 
ideal world, where trouble could not reach her. This was why 
she had allowed the young people to chat alone together, 
knowing well that Lucien would never sully the crystal purity 
of that young girl. But spring-time and youth had spoken; and 
Annie was agitated. Nothing now could give her back her former 
serenity. As a mother, Mme. Orliet felt a kind of anger take 
possession of her heart; as a wife, her second thought was bet- 
ter. How could she reproach these two children? Had they 
not obeyed a law that is stronger than human will ? They loved 
each other — was it not natural and just to give them to each 
other, since they had been allowed to hope and to expect it ? 
Were not the real fools those who tried to stop them in this in- 
evitable end? 

They were entirely too young: but what could be done about 
that ? Would the situation be changed any after the struggle of 
months ? And if, during that time, carried away by his youth 
and his love, Lucien should forget himself ? If, while being the 
most honest fellow in the world, he should forget the respect 
due his betrothed, could they blame him, or those who through 
a feeling of worldly wisdom would violate nature itself? 

Of all these thoughts, the saddest for Mme. Orliet was that 
perhaps her daughter would not rise to that moral elevation to 
which she had tried to lead her. Annie, as a wife, would be 
always Annie; but the young girl who would blush under the 
furtive kisses of him who loved her, this was not the incarnation 
of purity which had enchanted her mother’s soul. 

If Lucien felt himself reproved, and his love, freely shown till 
now to his family, should be lowered to secrecy I That was 
what Mme. Orliet could not admit for an instant. These 
dangers offered no middle course; they existed, or they did not 
exist. Annie’s mother uttered a sigh as she said to herself that 
she could no longer withhold her consent to this marriage. 
Before speaking, she looked at her child. 

The young giii walked at her side silently and almost calmly. 
The path ran between two hedges, sometimes between two 
garden or orchard walls; the shadows of the trees, with the 
foliage just shooting forth, were light and fantastic: the joy and 
pleasure of living seemed in that atmosphere, with an indefina- 
ble perfume of flowers, which feel nothing themselves— at least, 
one believes so— and yet they send forth a subtile aroma, like 
the charm of certain women, who have nothing in particular to 
recommend them to the eye, and yet they are loved more than 
some who are beautiful. 

Annie was grave; she raised her eyes occasionally and looked 
around her in an astonished and nervous manner. Nature itself 
appeared a revelation to her. She had read in the eyes of her 
betrotlied a troubled intoxication, which troubled her also: for 
the first time she felt that there was in love something else be- 
side tenderness, and she thought of it without knowing what it 


30 


WILD OATS, 


was, with a candor of soul, and the sincerity of one who had 
never been perverted by false principles. She had never been 
forbidden anything, why should she believe evil? Her modesty 
nevertheless trembled, instinctively affected, and that is what 
appeared in her face, which, though it was smiling, yet it also 
was a little fearful. 

“Of what are you thinking?” demanded her mother in a 
sweet voice, in order not to draw her too abruptly from her 
thoughts. 

The young girl smiled and blushed a little, but raised her eyes 
frankly to those which questioned her so gently. I was think- 
ing, mamma, of the time when you were the betrothed of my 
father, and I asked myself if you were as happy as I am. One 
cannot be happier than I am. Tell me, is it possible to be?” 

“ Truly, it would be difficult to be more so,” replied Mme. 
Orliet. “ As much, perhaps, but differently. Your father was 
older than Lucien, and wiser; he w as my friend as well as my 
husband. I considered him a judge from whom there was no 
appeal. You are two children.” 

Annie laughed, her pretty, contented laugh, the music of 
w’hich had so much charm for the mother who adored her. 
“Not children!” said she, “not children who play at house- 
keeping! You will see, mamma, how wisdom will come to us! 
It has come to me already. I am much more serious, and 
Lucien also.” 

She was silent. In fact, Lucien became more and more silent 
when near her, and this gravity troubled her. 

“If we should let you marry > you would not know how to 
keep house,” said Mme. Orliet, with a smile. 

“ You will see. Do you think we may marry, mamma?” 

The pure gray eyes put this question with great frankness. 

“ Do you wish it?” asked Mme. Orliet, with the same sincerity. 

Annie did not blush. She had never been taught to blush or 
to deceive. 

“Yes, and no,” said she. “Yes, when I think of Lucien; I 
should like to be where I should never leave him; and no, when 
I say to myself that I shall no longer live so near to you, so very, 
very near, in your arms ” 

The road was deserted, the two parasols fell on the sand; the 
mother and daughter tenderly embraced each other; then, 
laughing to conceal their emotion, they picked up their para- 
sols and continued on their way. 

Mothers have a right to complain. Before her child is yet 
born, it belongs wholly to her; after it is born, and is cared for 
by her, it is still a part of herself, and who knows if a secret 
instinct of jealousy does not sometimes make her regret the 
time when the public would not see it, when she only knew the 
secrets of its still obscure life ? But later, when it is necessary 
to give part of it to society, when it learns to walk, it is a cruel 
grief. From this moment, each day detaches the mother from 
the being who makes a personal life for itself: it becomes ego- 
tistical — innocently — without knowing it, and the mother suf- 
fers; when it leaves its home, she weeps. 


WILD OATS, 


3i 


f’ Much later on, having battled with life, and felt its sorrows, 
the child returns to its mother, who always consoled it, and who 
never forsakes it, its only consolation. Man’s sorrows are 
heavy, but different from those of the child; those of the wife 
are not less hard, but the mother acquires patience. She learns 
to conquer her jealousy, to love more than herself the being 
bom of her sufferings, nourished by her blood, trained by her 
care, and she teaches that adored being the great art of suffer- 
ing without becoming hardened. 

That is why our grandmothers are so tender. 

From the moment of independent existence, which is the first, 
then the next most cruel hour in a mother’s life is when her 
young daughter goes away with her husband. It is not only 
the separation, it is the gulf, the unknown. 

Where is this smiling: young woman going who’puts her head 
out of the window of the railway carriage to see you for the last 
time ? It is not to such and such a sunny country, or such and 
such a tranquil shore. It is into the redoubtable future, to all 
joys and all sorrows, to sickness and grief, to death, sooner or 
later, which will cover in the family tomb that woman who 
henceforth will bear another name to the end of her life. 

During this walk on the dusty road, under the April sun, be- 
tween two hedges of white flowers, Mme. Orliet felt the bit- 
terness of the coming separation. Her heart was full of grief; 
her eyes, filled with tears, saw the shadows of the trees on the 
gravel-walk. 

She did not wish to pain the innocent child who caused her 
grief; she endeavored to restrain herself. And when the 
struggle ended, when she felt that she had conquered herself, 
she returned home by the longest way, accompanied by the 
silent young girl, on whom she could now smile without fear of 
afflicting her. 

The sacrifice was made. Mme Orliet decided to allow her 
daughter to marry. 

Lucien came to supplicate her, but found her favorable to his 
wishes. His father would be more difficult to convince. M. 
Komanet had taken it into his head that his son should have 
a medal from the Salon before he was worthy to be married. • 

Lucien and his mother had in vain represented to him that, 
not having submitted anything, he could not obtain this dis- 
tinction before the following year; the notary would not under- 
stand these reasons. 

Mme Orliet was obliged again 'to come to the rescue. She 
spoke seriously, and with extreme delicacy, made the most of 
the motives which should not indefinitely delay the marriage, 
conquered the obstinate resistance of Father Komanet, and, after 
a week’s severe struggle, they decided that the marriage should 
take place on the first of June. 


CHAPTER VHI. 

Time flew by like a dream. Each day passed quickly, and at 
the end ot the week, they were all surprised to find that Sunday 


82 M^ILD OATS, 

had come again. At last the long-wished-for day came without 
a cloud in the sky. 

Annie awoke with the first rays of the sun, with the impres- 
sion that something extraordinary was going to take place, and 
she was a little frightened. , . . , 

She ran in her bare feet to the window and opened it wide 
before she was thoroughly awake. She felt life’s realities re- 
turn to her, with the tender light of day and the confused chirp- 
ing of the birds. 

“I am going to be married to-day,” she said, abstractedly, as 
she leaned against the window of her balcony. 

To-day I The evening before was so long that several months 
seemed to have passed since the moment that she received her 
mother’s good-night kiss. It was then last evening, and now to-day 
had already come. After a few hours, Annie Orliet would be 
Mme. Romanet, junior. This idea made her smile, and 
drew her thoughts to Mme. Romanet, senior, who put on her 
glasses to knit, and this burst of gayety wholly awakened her. 

Annie’s window looke»l toward the south, so, at this hour, the 
delicious odor of the flowers which were begining to bloom, was 
wafted to her. The sun gilded the tops of the lindens ; the 
orangertrees, white with blossoms on the terrace, seemed to 
offer her an immense wedding bouquet. 

The young girl remained contemplating this garden which 
was so dear to her eyes and to her heart. 

She had been happy, so happy, that she did not believe there 
could be more perfect happiness, or happiness more tran- 
sparent. 

H«jr mother was going to be alone. How large this house 
would appear to her! 

“ I am very wicked, very bad, to forsake mamma thus !” 
thought Annie, feeling the tears coming to her eyes. 

She leaned on the balcony and wept for several minutes. 
They were gentle, quiet tears, Avhich come from the soul with- 
out causing grief. She then dressed herself hastily, and re- 
turned to the window which attracted her. 

Everybody still slept in the house. It was scarcely four 
* o’clock in the morning. There was no noise except from the 
poultry-yards in the neighborhood. 

The cloc.k of Notre Dame struck the hour on the sonorous air, 
and Annie looked at the elegant towers which appeared almost 
pink under the blue sky. The swallows flew about with cries 
of joy; not a breatli of wind stirred the garden. Annie recalled 
the field of apple-trees, and a deep flush suffused her face. 
To-day Lucien would take her away, and say to her all those 
words which, till now, she had only divined in his eyes — his eyes 
which would never be turned away from her after to-day. He 
would take her away and she should never leave him again, un- 
til deai;h. 

Death! Ah ! She could never endure to lose him, this friend 
of her childhood, this love of her youth. If he should die, she 
should die also. At least, unless she had children, and then she 
should live for them, as her mother had lived for her, Yes, OQO 


WILD OATS, 


might die. But, except from death, Annie would be shielded 
from all sorrow. Life opened before her like a triumphal arch. 
Very soon, she would pass between the orange-trees, crowned 
with virgin white blossoms. The air was fragrant, the sky so 
blue, life so pleasant, and she loved so much ! Forgetting her- 
self, intoxicated with happiness, she leaned her head on her 
hands and wept. 

Weeping for joy, at eighteen, the morning of her marriage ! 
It is a dream of incomparable felicity! 

As she raised her head, to gaze once more upon these scenes so 
dear to her, which had become a part of herself, she saw a human 
form through the ivy which twined about the garden gate. 

Ashamed at being seen on this day, and at that hour, trembling 
lest the eye that saw her, might guess the secret of her happy 
tears, she arose: the early riser crossed the road, she saw him 
better, and recognized Lucien. 

He had not slept, either; the dawn had found him up; an in- 
describable intoxication had kept him awake, and as soon as day 
had dissipated the morning dawn, he had left the house. For 
an hour, he had walked along the borders of the Seine, through 
the damp meadow-grass, with the overwhelming joy of a man 
who has reached the pinnacle of his desires; then he was return- 
ing slowly to the town. His betrothed’s open window had. at- 
tracted his attentioii, and in a moment he was there, only 
separated by the iron gate from her, from whom, before the day 
was over, he would never be separated again. 

They looked at -each other for an instant. They had not ex- 
pected to see each other thus on that day: they smiled, overcome 
with joy. Suddenly Lucien jumped over the gate, which he 
cleared with agility, and ran toward the large orange-trees 
whose branches hung low under the weight of the opening buds: 
he hastily broke off several branches, which he tied together 
with long wisps of grass; then, going a short distance from the 
balcony, he threw this bouquet, which fell into Annie’s hands. 

“ Forever yours!” said he, in a voice like a sigh, as he kissed 
his hands to her. 

She put the virgin bouquet to her lips; Lucien, clearing the 
gate a second time, reached the road, where he remained mo- 
tionless, still looking at her. 

The sun rose; the church clock gravely sounded the hours, and 
the village awoke. Lucien fled, feeling that if he remained a 
moment longer he could not go away at all. Annie followed 
him with her eyes until he disappeared, then re-entered her 
chamber; she did not wish to see anything more outside, in 
order to preserve intact in her memory, in that aurora, the ap- 
parition of the man to whom she was going to give her life. 

Soon the household arose. Mme. Orliet came to embrace 
her daughter, and slowly, without assistance from strange 
hands, she dressed her for the ceremony. The orange-blossoms 
that Lucien had thrown remained on the table: without know- 
ing why, Annie took them before her mother could see them 
and put them in her jewel-box, of which she always carried the 
key. It was the first secret that she had ever had from her. yet 


u 


WILD OATS. 


she had no remorse. It seemed to her that since the meeting 
this morning she belonged to her husband and only to him. 

The hours passed, slowly to some, quickly to others; the good 
souls of the village criticised this, and had much to say of that: 
Annie’s dress was too handsome, her mother’s was not handsome 
enough; there was no ball, only a breakfast; the young married 
people were going away the same evening, in the English 
fashion — that was an innovation; among the old families there 
had never been a wedding with so little pomp. 

Those most interested cared very little for this gossip, or for 
their ideas of etiquette. Mine. Romanet dreamed of nothing 
but the bridal pair. Master Romanet, full of his importance, 
felt himself the most conspicuous man in Mantes, and asserted 
himself as if he wdshed to impress upon others the majesty of 
his position, and that, since he approved it, this marriage was 
the most reasonable and most admirable that had ever taken 
place. Mme. Oiiiet was not affected the least in the world. 
She did all the honors with a calm grace, which some thought 
haughty, but which was only dignified. Annie and Lucien 
were not sure that they were living beings, but their dream was 
so delicious that they did not ask to be awakened. 

The afternoon came, the guests went away; the young mar- 
ried people, after having changed their costumes, took the train 
to go to Rouen, to begin their wedding journey. A moment of 
confusion followed their departure. A quarter of an hour after 
the Romanets and Mme. Orliet were alone in the notary’s 
grand dining room where the unfeeling clock had already 
sounded so many good-byes and welcomes. 

“They are gone and we are all alone,” said Mme. Romanet, 
wiping her eyes for the hundredth time in the hour just passed. 

“ They are not the ones whom I pity!” said her husband, with 
a gruff severity that he tried to affect. 

“May they be happy 1” thought Madame Orliet, who had not 
shed a tear. 

“Thank God, they will never want for anything,” replied 
Lucien’s mother. “But they are so young, they will do so many 
foolish things.” 

“We are here to prevent that,” said M. Romanet. “What 
foolish things will they do ? spend too much money ? We will 
take care of all that!” 

“If Lucien only knew a little more about the world! I am so 
afraid that something may happen to him — some accident, 
which heretofore I have always guarded against. I do not know 
whether he understands a thousand little things ” 

“You should have thought of that before!” said the father, 
sententiously; “now they are married; it is like a ship gone to 
sea, there is nothing more to do than to wish them a good 
voyage.” 

“ Bon voyage!” said both mothers together, with a sigh. 


WILD OATS, 


35 


CHAPTER IX. 

“Why, madame, did you not know that Friday is the day to 
go to the Hippodrome, and that Saturday is the day for the 
Circus? Don’t you know anything?” said Jalbrun, opening his 
large eyes. 

“ Nothing at all,” said Annie, laughing with all her heart. 

“But you, Romanet, you ought to know these things! It is 
shameful, at your age, not to know where to take your wife 
when you wish to go somewhere for amusement.” 

Lucien bit his mustache, but did not reply. 

“We are the two little children lost in the woods,” said the 
young wife, “ unless some generous passer-by should come to 
release us, we shall die neglected, and the little robin-red- 
breasts, as in the story, will be obliged to come all the way from 
England on purpose to bury us under the leaves.” 

At this they all three burst out laughing. 

They breakfasted in the young married people’s pretty little 
dining-room, which contained a bay-window filled with flowers, 
ornamented with tail side-boards filled withhold, artistic silver, 
the gift of Mme. Orliet; it was a liospitable dining-room 
where the friends had a nice breakfast. 

Jalbrun had become Annie’s friend, as he was that of her 
husband. 

If newly married husbands knew how much good-will their 
wives smilingly spend to make their homes agreeable to their 
friends, many little bickerings would be spared each other. A 
sort of timid curiosity mingles with a desire to please, a 
desire which is so innocent that it cannot be called coquetry; 
the young wife wishes to know how her husband, who is so at- 
tentive to her, lived among his friends. He appears to her un- 
der a new light, very different from what she has seen him till 
now, such as he has always appeared to others, except to her 
and her surroundings. She listens to him; she studies him; 
and however amiable and well-bred her husband’s friend may be, 
only he pleases her if he presents in a favorable light the "hus- 
band who is the king of her world. 

The task had been easy with Jalbrun. He was a large well- 
developed man, as active as Lucien was contemplative, as brown 
as he was fair, as homely as he was beautiful, but his homeli- 
ness was so spiritual, so sympathetic that one could not help 
loving him. He was some years older than his friend, and it 
was on his conscience that he had urged him to become a 
painter. 

Music was the art which Jalbrun affected; but after it was 
once understood that he was a musician, he only rendered to 
music a respectful and platonic worship. Every art attracted 
him; he painted tolerably well, modeled a bust without much 
effort, and thanks to these varied talents, perhaps still more to 
his small fortune, which allowed him to live in independence, 
he knew everybody, was disliked by some and adored by 
others. When Jalbrun entered a place life and gayety went 


36 WILD OAT^. 

with him; and when he left, he seemed to take them away 
with him. 

So much talent and so many charms should have made him 
many enemies; but he really had but few, and he said of those, 
“They will see when I shall have finished my symphonic 
poem !” 

It would be unjust to say that Jalbrun did not work at this 
symphonic poem; from time to time he shut liimself up for a 
week, and would not receive his friends. Then, after this excess 
of work, he gave himself a well-earned holiday for rest, an\i pro- 
longed it till his idleness caused him remorse. 

Then he would be seen in the most extraortlinary places; 
among aristocrats in high-life, and in the doubtful cafea of the 
boulevard. Sometimes he dined behind Montmartre, in a 
second-class inn, frequented by a class of indifferent poets, at 
the risk of being assassinated when he w^ent out by the rag- 
pickers, who not having found a full purse on their beat, hunted 
for one in the pockets of well-dressed people, where they were 
more likely to be found. The next day, serene in a white cravat, 
he might be seen entering Durand’s, but with another sort of a 
friend, a senator, or a deputy. 

Without belonging to the bohemian class, Jalbrun knew and 
was familiar with all the bohemians in art and literature; with- 
out knocking he entered an artist’s studio when the middle 
classes, or financiers, tired of ringing the bell in vain, had gone 
down the stairs with noses a yard long. He did not always have 
the pass-word, but from his manner of ringing or scratching on 
the door, the artist, who was afraid of undesirable visits, said to 
himself : “ It is a confrere,'^ and he opened the door. 

Roma net loved him like a brother. Nothing was more natural; 
when, discouraged by his father’s scoldings and his mother’s 
distress, Lucien said that he could do nothing well, and nothing 
that he had done was worth exhibiting, Jalbrun had remon- 
strated with him, stirred him upj and encouraged him; he had 
inspired his wavering soul with courage, assuring him of his 
talent, which he had begun to doubt. There is nothing that draws 
you to people as much as to feel that they have confidence in 
you. To feel that his talent is unrecognized, or under-estimated, 
is enough to chill the enthusiasm of any artist. 

Jalbrun was an adept in the art of encouraging artist’s weak- 
nesses. It required the same courage to say to the acknowledged 
painter, “Your canvas is not worth anything;” or to the youth- 
ful sculptor, doubtful about his work, “ Your cast is very good; 
try to model it a little better, and you will see it at the Salon!*’ 

That is why so many young men, imknown to-day, celebrated 
to-morrow, spoke warmly of him and defended him courage- 
ously against those who were dissatisfied with him after he had 
told them some severe truths. Jalbrun listened to the stories of 
their epic struggles, with a smile upon his firm face, and said to 
all, either friends or enemies: “ My dear children, how happy 
you must be because you are so young!” 

Such was the view that he took of life. 

He loved young men, those who had blood in their veins— no 


WILD OATS. 


37 


matter if this blood was sometimes too effervescent — faith in 
their souls — faith in no matter what — in honor, in the ideal, in 
art, in the future, in their country, in a beloved wife! 

They are young!” said he, smiling, and this word excused 
their faults, their senseless quarrels, their useless susceptibilities. 
The only thing that he could not forgive in any one, at any 
price, was meanness. 

“ I understand,” said he, “ how one may stab with a knife 
when one’s blood is up; but I do not understand how one can 
stab a man’s calves with a pin, whether he be friend or foe.” 

Those who had small souls did not dare show it before him, 
for fear of being scourged by these terrible sallies, which brand- 
ed like an iron, because they were just, and because the reproach 
was merited. 

Immediately after their return from the wedding journey, 
Romanet had hastened to seek Jalbrun, to present him to his 
wife, who had seen him only among others on the wedding-day. 

“You may not find it easy to get along with him at first,” 
said Lucien; “but I beg you will try your best. If you but knew 
what a good and beautiful soul he has under that curious ex- 
terior!” 

Annie did not have to make any effort. She possessed in a 
high degree the quality that Jalbrun prized above all others — 
sincerity. They understood each other from the first day. 

Although she was a woman of the world, thanks to her severe 
education, she was always so natural that she could never be 
common-place. Although Jalbrun frequented the extremes of 
society, he retained within himself a height of moral elevation, 
which made this careless man to all appearance a gentleman 
perfectly correct in the presence of anything noble, above all a 
noble woman. 

September passed; many who did not care for hunting re- 
turned to Paris, attracted by the intellectual life there. The 
newly maiTied couple made their plans for the winter, and, 
naturally, Jalbrun was constantly consulted. He knew every- 
thing, where the best furniture was sold, the place where real 
Japaneze stuffs were for sale at a bargain, and possessed all the 
information they required. 

Wliat he also knew, and of which Lucien had no idea, was, 
where one could go and where one could not go. He found it 
very amusing to guide them in that part of the town where one 
elbows one’s way, and does not speak to one’s friends; he went 
with them, these two ingenuous beings, one as ignorant as the 
other, and capable of committing the most foolish mistakes, the 
mistakes of a provincial, fifty years old, fresh from Perpignan 
or Tarascon. 

“ One cannot do this, one cannot do that,” said he all the time, 
and at the question, “ Why ?” asked by Annie, made such clever 
replies, gave such impossible reasons, which proved so very 
comical, that Lucien understood the truth, while his wife 
laughed till tears came, and in good faith accepted the explana- 
tions that were given. 

Thus the winter be^an and continued. Lucien woikcd with 


88 


WILD OATS. 


less enthusiasm than in the past, but with a very strong desire 
to make a name for liimself. He seldom went to his master’s 
studio, where his position as a married man had created a sort 
of coldness between him and his fellow-artists. They would 
have liked to rally him, but they did not dare; they respected 
their comrade’s simplicity. Besides, they felt, from a cold 
light in Lucien’s eyes, that their poking would not be well- 
received, and they restrained themselves. So they made no 
remarks to the young man upon his new situation, but this 
silence established a reserve between them, that became un- 
pleasant; the young artist took no notice of these things, and 
continued his studies. 

He also worked at home. His large and commodious studio 
allowed him to set up canvases of all dimensions; he brought a 
lot of interesting studies from his wedding-trip, and winter 
was not long enough to execute all the work that he had laid 
out. 

During the fog the days were very short. When the light 
became gray through the large studio window, Annie entered 
ready for a walk; Lucien put away his brushes, and they went 
otf gayly, walking closely together, under the pretense that 
they could walk more rapidly. They made calls sometimes. 
They liked society and society liked them. Young, handsome, 
amiable, rich enough to accept and return hospitality, they 
were equally sought by all their old family friends and % their 
new relations. 

When it became time to send pictures to the Salon, Lucien 
had not finished what he intended to exhibit. He sent the 
Romanet Or'chard, fearing that it would be refused. He was 
greatly surprised when he found that it had been received 
and declared a success, and then he became somewhat less 
modest. 

On varnishing day this picture proved a brilliant success, 
which might justly have turned stronger heads than that of the 
young man. Friends stopped each other and said, “ Have you 
seen the Romanet Orchard P Then go, if only to see that I” 

People crowded around the picture, and praised its fresh and 
dazzling tints. True artists half-smiled; some envied; others 
declared that they could not understand this success; but the 
public was taken, and when the public is taken, there is nothing 
to say, for it likes or hates without knowing why. As a father, 
who knew his son well said: “ He does not know what he wants, 
but he wants it intensely.” 

The first of May, that year, Lucien Romanet was celebrated. 
It is impossible to tell his mother’s joy. His father was not less 
delighted, but he did not show it, believing that it is not best to 
tell children that you are pleased with them. This was the old 
system of education, which formerly resulted well if it were not 
pushed too far. 

Really, no one was deceived; by the tone in which Master Ro- 
manet said, ‘‘ I do not see what they find good in that!” In the 
mile that lingered around the corners of his mouth, iu the burst 


WILD OATS. 89 

of joy mixed with affected malice which darted through his blue 
eyes, Lucien w^ell understood his father’s proud satisfaction. 

Annie lived in a dream. She laughed as w'hen she was a 
young girl, without any cause, carried away with foolish joy. 
Twenty times a day she threw her arms around her husband’s 
neck and said to him: 

“ You know that you are a great artist.” 

He laughed and mocked her; but, in his heart, he welcomed 
without too much questioning, this praise which greatly pleased 
his vanity. He said to himself that he ought to work very hard, 
while he reveled in the thought that he was making a name for 
himself. 

That year was an enchantment for him. He made a number 
of studies at Mantes during the summer, also in Britany, in the 
south, and wherever chance carried him; he took a bit of 
landscape here and a bit there, and returned to his studio with 
his head confused with these varied ideas. The following year 
he sent two landscapes to the Salon, and they were rejected. 

Tliat caused him to reflect. The shock was less for Annie than 
for him, for Mme. Orliet had predicted this result. She knew 
enough of men and things to know that her son-in-law, whose 
head had been turned by his success, would commit some 
blunders. 

To console him, the young wife used the balm of tenderness 
with which wives know so well how to heal wounded vanity. 
Besides, she loved him so much that she would make any sacrifice 
to comfort her husband when he was sad. With a mixture of 
childishness and truth which pertains to those who love sin- 
cerely, she persuaded him to look at things in a light in which he 
had formerly refused to see them. It was Mme. Orliet who 
spoke through her daughter; she would not have succeeded her- 
self. Annie, gained her cause, naturally. 

Lucien began to work again; beginning to sketch, and from 
the commencement of the following winter returned to the 
right path; he almost finished an excellent work, and did much 
toward recovering the shock of the preceding Salon. 

At the moment when a new success would distinguish his 
name, and restore him in the favor of the public, who only re- 
membered his first brilliant success, Annie gave him a darling 
daughter, as pretty as the mother herself. A few weeks later 
Lucien received a third medal. 

Jalbrun was radiant over his friend’s happiness. That strange 
and sympathetic being loved or he did not love. Those whom 
he did not love he could not endure: those whom he loved were 
a part of his existence; he rejoiced in their happiness and he 
suffered in their griefs, as if they were his own. The family 
life which Lucien led appeared to him a delicious oasis in the 
more or less disguised Bohemian world which he constantly 
frequented. , . ^ , 

In the eyes of this man who spent his life without a home, 
who dined at the restaurants, and who never returned to his 
rooms before one o’clock in the morning, the Romanet house- 


4C WILD OATS, 

hold had sometliing of that serenity which seemed borrowed 
from the stars. 

A home where dinner was served regularly, where servants 
went and came like shadows, where lamps burnt with a soft 
and shaded ligrht, where the young wife moved about with tran- 
quil grace, without any show of rich apparel, where no unnec- 
essary noise was heard, it was a corner of a new world, such as 
one reads of in books, such as Jalbrun had never known. 

He spoke of it so often to his friend and drew such favorable 
comparisons between it and the brilliant society that he fre- 
quented that at last Romanet became impatient. 

“ You seem to take us for Estelle and Nemorin,” said he, one 
day. “But, the deuce, my friend, we are not so primitive 
Do you think that we do not know anything about the world ? ’ 

“Gently!*’ replied the musician. “The people of whom I 
speak are very refined, and Monsieur de Florian bears no resem- 
blance whatsoever to that antediluvian! Your paradise is can- 
opied with Oriental stuffs: the difference is not so great. But 
you are wrong to calumniate yourself, You and you wife are 
kind-hearted, and that is worth more than anything else.” 

Romanet was not satisfied. For some months, he had mingled 
more in the society of his confreres than formerly, and he 
fancied that he saw in the w^elcome that they gave him, mingled 
with a real or feigned recognition of his talent, a shade of very 
discreet raillery, hidden under extreme politeness, but which he 
could hardly misunderstand. 

They treated him, with great respect, as if he were a young 
woman before whom they must not discuss certain subjects. 

When any one launched out into the recital of some doubtful 
adventure, more than one look was turned toward Romanet as 
if to see how he would take it. There was a cold mockery in 
this behavior, a sort of a playful tap, all the more displeasing as 
it was impossible to specify in what the displeasure consisted 
and what could have been the cause. 

More than once Romanet felt himself blush under these looks; 
if he addressed himself to the one who had looked at him thus, 
he encountered that irreproachable rather cold amiability w'hich 
keeps one at a distance and which prevents all intimacy. He 
made one at a dinner, which are so often given by men in the 
same profession; elected by acclamation at the moment of his 
success, he had not found there what he had expected. Jalbrun, 
who had presented him, had made him acquainted with all his 
friends; after a few meetings, their acquainiance made no prog- 
ress, he did not become intimate with any one, although they 
all esteemed him greatly. 

During the summer each went his own way. Lucien almost 
forgot the singular manner of most of the people whom he 
knew. Annie, his little Louise and himself, settled themselves 
at Arcachon, where Mme. Orliet had preceded them; under the 
great pines, on the sea-shore, they passed many happy hours. 

The cottage was somewhat isolated, which made them feel 
almost solitary; with his wife, his daughter and his mother-in- 
law Lucien passed a never-to-be-forgotten summer, whose mem- 
ory he recalled later as a dream of paradise. 


WILD OATS. 


41 


They d id not avoid the other bathers, but their happiness kept 
them from mingling in promiscuous society. The mixed society 
around them seemed a sort of moving panorama, an animated 
kaleidoscope which amused them without creating any desire to 
mingle in it. 

At the end of the first month, Romanet formed among the 
men some acquaintance with whom he walked on the beach, 
but whom he never invited to his house; taking a hand at a 
whist party, the flattering appreciations of an intelligent ama- 
teur^ are, at watering-places, sufficient excuses for attempts at 
continuing later, in Paris, acquaintances that might not prove 
altogether agreeable. August brought a great many people to 
Arcachon. They were less select, perhaps, but certainly more 
lively and gayer. 

One evening, before dinner, Lucien smoked a cigar with a very 
well-bred gentleman for whose society he had taken a fancy on 
account of his very marked Parisian conversation, which 
skimmed all subjects without exhausting them. In age, M. 
de Noirmont was hardly a companion for the young artist, for 
he must have been nearly fifty; but men like him have no age, 
especially if they have frequented society and know all its %- 
paths well. 

‘•At last,” said Noirmont, adjusting his eyeglass, “there are 
some ladies! That element is conspicuous by its absence in our 
Eden.” 

Lucien followed his companion’s look, and saw three or four 
beautiful persons, or, at least they made pretensions to beauty, 
which formed a group some distance from the terrace. It was 
impossible to misinterpret their social position; they had volim- 
tarily announced it in the intended peculiarity of their costumes, 
by the exaggerated brillancy of their complexions and their 
hair, and even more by their constant attention to what was 
passing around them, a kind of restlessness, so different from 
the repose of those whose lives are not affected by chance. 

“ Do you know them ?” said Romanet, indifferently. 

“ I know one of them; the others are new recruits, probably, 
or perhaps promotions.” 

Noirmont had risen carelessly: “ Will you not come with 
me ?” said he to Lucien, who remained seated, rapping the table 
with the end of his cane. 

The young man hesitated a moment. 

“No, thanks,” said he, in a tone that resembled a regret. “I 
am expected at home.” 

“Then, good-bye,” said Noirniont, who bowed and went 
awav. 

Half a second had not passed before Romanet repented having 
refused. Why had he not followed his companion ? What false 
shame had held him back ? After all, one often met such women 

ithout any consequences. One met them, for it was impossible 
to avoid them. More than once Lucien had met a woman of the 
class at the studio where she had gone to admire the paintings 
of one of his friends. What absurd pinidery had seized him 
now ? 


42 


WILD OATS. 


He arose in a bad humor, scarcely understanding its cause. T*y 
go home[he had to go within a short distance of this group of new- 
comers, where Noirmont was already joined by several gentle- 
men of his acquaintance. His recent refusal annoyed him, and 
he did not like being annoyed by so slight a cause. The clock 
struck seven; he could even now change his mind. 

Lucien arose and went toward the door, going with an unde- 
cided gait. 

When he was in sound of her voice, one of these women stared 
at him attentively, and he heard her ask: 

“Who is that?” 

“Lucien Eomanet,” said Noirmont, without lowering his 
voice. 

The young man continued on his way without appearing to 
have heard, but there was less freedom than usual in his walk. 

“ He is not bad,” said a female voice. “ It seems that he has 
some talent, has he not ?” 

Lucien did not hear the reply; he started off hurriedly for his 
home. He was displeased with everybody, with these women, 
with De Noirmont, with himself and for a moment — like a flash 
— he believed that he was displeased with his wife. 

What had Annie to do with all this ? If anybody was above 
such thoughts, it was surely his pure and charming young wife! 
Then Lucien, shaking himself like a dog who has just^heen beaten, 
recovered his balance in a moment; without doub he had been 
unsettled that day; sometimes one has this bitterness against 
the whole universe; the atmosphere of his home would drive 
it all away. 

In fact, as soon as he entered his cottage, the accustomed at- 
mosphere of his home, the familiar aspects that Annie and her 
mother had given to this little house, brought the youn^ man’s 
thoughts back to their usual channel. The sight of his wife, 
who came to him carrying the infant covered with embroidery, 
Mme. Orliet’s smile, which always welcomed him, drew him 
again into the bosom of this loved family, and when he unfolded 
his napkin, some minutes after, he thought no more of the in- 
cident of the afternoon. 

Neither did he think of it again the next morning, when he 
made his daily visit to the Casino to read the papers and to en- 
joy the air. Even the sight of Noirmont rec^led nothing un- 
pleasant; he chatted with him a few minutes, as he did every 
day, met some other acquaintances, exchanged a few words, 
and went away, pleased with himself and others. 

The afternoon was not far advanced; a fresh wind covered 
the sea with silver white-caps, and gave one an inclination to 
move about. Lucien was seized with a fancy. He went to a 
livery-stable, ordered a little basket-phaeton harnessed, took the 
reins, and drove pell-mell to the cottage. At the sound of the 
wheels, Annie’s head appeared at a window. 

“ Quick,” said the young man, “ put on your hat and a light 
wrap, and we will take a drive. 

The young wife appeared in less than a minute, with a little 
cap on her head and a gauze veil around her neck — charmingly 


WILD OATS. 


43 


pretty, smiling and gay, ready for this unexpecte<i drive. She 
seated herself beside her husband, who gave the reins to the 
little Basque horse, and they started off at a rapid pace on the 
sandy road. 

The air made them so lively that Annie and Lucien almost 
forgot that they were serious, married people; the playfulness 
of their childhood returned to them for the moment, and they 
laughed merrily at a thousand foolish things that nobody else 
would have found droll, but which seemed inexpressibly ftmuy 
to them. 

They wandered about for two hours, wherever their fancy led 
them; and then, seeing suddenly that the sun was going down, 
they turned to go back to the cottage, but went more slowly, for 
they^ had tired the little horse by the rapidity of the first half of 
their drive. 

What was life to these happy ones ? After the intoxication of 
their rapid drive, they enjoyed the gentle motion of their re- 
turn, involuntarily leaning against each other, they liked so 
much to feel themselves side by side. The two years and more 
of their married life had taken away nothing of their love, and 
had added to their tenderness; the habit of never leaving each 
other, of leading the same artistic and social life, of loving the 
same things and the same people, had doubled their joys, until 
now they had come to resemble each other. They often 
opened their lips to say the same tnings at the same naoment, 
which made them laugh. 

The wind had fallen, the white-caps had disappeared, and the 
heat of the day made them languid. The little horse only 
walked, and Lucien had no desire to hurry him. The magnifi- 
cent horizon under his eyes, Annie’s charming and supple body 
leaning on his shoulder, he felt himself very happy, and little by 
little he became grave. 

The young wife no longer spoke; she was gazing at the splen- 
dor of the sky and the sea; she looked without seeing, and ap- 
peared in a reverie. 

** Of what are you thinking?” demanded Lucien. 

“ T thought — you will be very much surprised! I was think- 
ing of our wedding-day, when you came in the morning, you 
know, and threw me the bouquet of orange-blossoms. I have 
preserved it — the bouquet; it is still fragrant.” 

Lucien smiled. Men feel themselves superior to such child- 
ishness. 

“That was. a happy moment, was it not?” said Annie, in a 
low voice. 

The road before them was deserted. Lucien embraced his 
wife, instead of replying 

“ It was like a dream,” said she. “ It is the first secret that I 
have concealed from mamma.” 

She smiled, and suddenly her eyes were filled with tears. 

“ We are so happy,” said she, “ that sometimes I am afraid.” 

“ Afraid of what, my Annie ?” 

“Afraid that it will not last — afraid lest something may 


44 


WILD OATS. 


happen. ^Tiat if you should weary of me, and no longer 
love me ?” 

“ Child, replied Lucien, you know that I shall always love 
you !” 

“Truly?” 

She put forward her pretty head, smiling, while two tears re- 
mained midway down her cheeks. Her husband brushed away 
the tears with his lips. 

“Can I ever cease to love you, when I have loved you all my 
life?” 

They looked at each other with unspeakable tenderness. A lark 
sung in the blue sky, lost to sight ; its clear, piercing voice pene- 
trated their hearts, they were much affected, and they listened 
as little children listen to hymns in the church, when they are 
taught to pray. 

The lark ffew down, and they could see it only as a black 
speck in the brilliant sky ; it wheeled its flight like the move- 
ment of a gimlet, and as it approached the ground its song was 
more and more sweet and penetrating. 

“ Here it is,” said Annie, in a low tone; Lucien stopped the 
horse. 

The incomparable voice of the sweet bird slowly died away 
into a low murmur ; its wings fluttered ; at last it disappeared 
in its nest among the silver-green wheat, and they heard it no 
more. 

“ Lucien !” said Annie softly. 

He looked at her. In truth, at that moment they were per- 
fectly happy. 

They heard the steps of a pair of trotters behind them on the 
road, and before they had time to turn a large, heavy carriage 
passed them; on the cushions, under the shade of a silk umbrel- 
la trimmed with a profusion of lace, was seated one of the wom- 
en whom he had seen the night before, accompanied by a man 
who affected a ^ave air. 

When the carriage passed the little basket phaeton the woman 
looked at Lucien in mock surprise, then at Annie with a dis- 
dainful air. 

After a quarter of second, before the carriage disappeared at a 
turn in the road, the woman turned around and looked Lucien 
full in the face, laughing, as one would laugh at some ridicu- 
lous figure. 

Annie noticed nothing of this. 

What a dust they have raised !” said she calmly, while the 
cloud of dust slowly settled. 

Lucien, without answering, seized the whip, which he had not 
yet used, and plied it vigorously upon the little horse. 

The innocent creature, surprised at this unusual treatment, 
began to run with all his might toward the town. 

• “ What is the matter with him ?” said Annie, who did not un- 
derstand this. 

“ He made a misstep,” said Lucien, confused. 

But he knew that that was false; it was not the horse that had 


WILD OAT&, 45 

stumbled, it was his own fault — he knew not how — perhaps it 
was his conscience. 

This unimportant incident had an unpleasant result: the 
yoimg man had not yet arrived at that age when he was indif- 
ferent to the world’s opinion; the thought that anybody would 
ridicule him annoyed him at first and afterward angered him. 

It was in vain that he said to himself that the ridicule of that 
class of people was rather to his credit, that his moral sense, 
more elevated than hers, should raise him above such little at- 
tacks on his vanity : in the depths of his soul the young man felt 
an unexpressed discontentment, and at the same time a vague 
curiosity to explore the forbidden world which was known to 
everybody around him, and of which he alone was ignorant. 

This dissatisfaction with himself %vas soon spread to others; he 
had scarcely returned to Paris before he began to complain of a 
series of petty annoyances that he had never considered of any 
consequence before. A door closed noisily, a draught of air, a 
dinner not so well served as usual, made him so ill-natured that 
Annie could scarcely understand him. 

Since she had become a mother, she had not been able to devote 
as much time as formerly to her household affairs. The time 
that she spent playing with her little girl was taken partly from 
her house and partly from her husband. At first Lucien regret- 
ted very much when he no longer saw his wife’s pretty head 
peep between the two portieres when he was at work; afterward 
he was satisfied, for then he had more, freedom and more time 
to himself. 

His time? He did not know what to do with it! When he 
left his house about five o’clock, he strolled down the avenue, he 
went very slowly, he did not know where to go. It was no 
pleasure to make calls without his wife: he would not subject 
liimself to that disagreable task when his wife was not there to 
aid him. The fashionable cafes were not to his taste. Yet, for 
want of something else to do, having gone two or three times 
with some friends who were in the habit of frequenting them, it 
ended by his finding himself seated on the boulevard every day 
about six o’clock. 

After a while he became interested there. The little journal 
about Parisian life that he picked up there gave him a thousand 
explanations of things of which he was ignorant. This new 
branch of his education struck him with surprise, and he won- 
dered that he had never learned many things before. Others 
knew them, they understood the workings of what they called 
grand life — that life which made foreigners say and believe that 
all Parisian men were frauds and all Parisian women were lost. 
After three months of this theoretic instruction, Lucien had at 
his finger’s ends all the gossip that he had learnt from this 
chronicle of scandal, and could name all the men and women 
who promenaded habitually up and down the Boulevard des 
Italiens. 

He was seized with a mad desire to visit the houses of some of 
these women, to see what they were like, to discover how their 
lives differed from those of women of good society. 


46 


WILD OATS. 


Suppressing his aesthetic as well as his moral sense, he tried to 
believe that a painted face was prettier than a fresh complexion, 
and dyed hair more beautiful than that which was natural. 

His wife’s satin skin no longer attracted his looks or his lips. 
When he examined her he could not help seeing that she was 
young and lovely, but to his perverted taste she appeared faded. 
Her natural carmine lips appeared too pale to him in comparison 
with the rouged lips that haunted his imagination. Annie’s 
transparent and rosy skin was colorless beside the powdered 
cheeks and penciled eyebrows that he saw every day, and the 
sweet odor of violets which perfumed Annie’s clothes, and ap- 
peared to emanate from Annie herself, was lost in the strong 
perfumes which he had now become accustomed to inhale. 

“ I am a fool!” Lucien suddenly said to himself one day, when 
he saw several young men of his acquaintance enter the Maison 
Doree, to dine there in brilliant company. “ I do not know why 
I should voluntarily exile myself from this society! I know- 
nothing about it, and I appear ridiculous!” 

“And Annie?” whispered his conscience, “ Annie will know 
nothing about it! Why should she know? Besides, if anybody 
should tell her, she would not believe it.” 

Here Lucien distinctly heard his conscience call him 
“ Wretch!” This apostrophy had such an effect upon him that 
he immediately called a carriage and went home, taking his 
wife the most beautiful bouquet that she had received from 
him since their marriage* And, strange thing, and which proved 
the confusion in his disordered mind, while he was driving in the 
Boulevard Malesherbes, the subtile perfume of the bouquet rest- 
ing in his lap, mounted to his head, and he imagined himself 
carrying a bouquet — why not the same? — somewhere else than 
home to his wife. 

His mind was truly unsettled, for he could not drive away this 
sinful thought. An unconquerable timidity prevented him from 
asking any of his friends to present him at the house of any of 
these w^omen; which would perhaps have destroyed his illusions 
at once in showing him that they were not so widely different 
from other houses which he frequented. He did not wish to go 
voluntarily; he wished to be pushed there, to be enticed there. 
He wished to do something extraordinary; some ordinarily 
shameless act would not appease his wounded vanity, he did not 
wish to commit any common prank, a simple excursion ea'tra 
muroft , — his imagination was intoxicated more than his senses, he 
longed for some unexpected encounter, in which there would be 
the charm of poetry, but still a result that would pertain wholly 
to earth. 

Thus a part of the winter passed. Annie, who was happy 
with her mother, whom she saw every week, her husband and 
her child, knew absolutely nothing of all this. 


WILD OATS. 


47 


CHAPTER X. 

Before the commencemeiit of Lent the pupils of a celebrated 
studio organized a grand ball among themselves; a great deal 
was said about it and it promised to be, at least, curious. 

All the old pupils who had become famous were invited and 
accepted their invitations, and a fortnight before it came off all 
artistic Paris knew the plan of the fete and the principal cos- 
tumes. 

There was a rumor that there would be many pretty women 
there, and that is sufficient to give an idea of the eagerness with 
which the tickets were sought. 

“ Can you obtain an invitation for me ?” said Lucien, assum- 
ing an air of indifference, to Jalbrun, who had just described 
these projected splendors to him. 

The musician looked at his friend in profound amazement. 

“You?” 

“Yes, I? Why not?” 

“Surely, why not? Yet; well. No. I go back to my first 

astonishment — why ? Because Do you think it would 

please your wife?” 

“ It is nothing to my wife,” said Romanet, with impatience. 
“ 1 have not asked for an invitation for my wife.” 

“ I should hope not!” said Jalbrun in a roar of laughter. 

“ What do you find so extraordinary in my request,” asked 
Lucien, becoming vexed. “ Am I not an artist ? Is it because 
I am not rich enough, young enough, or sufficiently well- 
known? Is there any reason why I should be eternally denied 
the pleasures that others enjoy, as if 1 were a black sheep ?” 

“ There is no eartlily reason,” said Jalbrun gravely, seeing 
that his friend expected a reply. 

“Well, then?” 

“ As you like! I am not a moralist,” replied the musician, 
without losing his temper, “ but it seems to me that a man like 
you — a talented artist, rich, as you said yourself, married to an 
adorable wife, father of a beautiful child, has nothing to gain 
by allowing himself to be seen there, and that he has everything 
to lose.” 

“What? My freedom ?” said Lucien, with a spiteful laugh. 

“Perhaps!” 

There was silence; Jalbrun chewed his cigar with a weary air. 

“ Very well,” said Lucien, rising. “ I will ask some one else 
for an invitation. It cannot be very difficult to obtain.” 

“ It is true; you may obtain one, but it is not so easy as you 
imagine.” 

“But ?” 

“ But I think you had better remain at home. Come, now, do 
you want advice ? Give a grand dinner on that day, twenty 
covers if you like, and invite all the best’ artists. You are able 
to do that. That would be a manifestation of good taste, in the 
e^^es of those who respect themselves.” 

“If I should invite you on that day, would you come?” 
said Lucien, with an air of doubt. 


48 


WILD OATS. 


“ I ? Never in the world! I shall go to the ball as a Turk, and 
I shall dance till seven o’clock in the morning.” 

“You see!” cried Romanet, with restrained anger. “I am 
the only one forbidden.” 

“What do you wish, my dear friend?” said Jalbrun, trying 
to turn off the difficulty by jesting. “ There are men who are 
born to belong to the Institute; there are serious, well-regulated 
men, who are always well spoken of; in forty years from now 
it is intended by public opinion that you shall belong to the In- 
stitute. You may perhaps be a martyr, but it is certainly an 
honor, and you must merit it. Be resigned, then!” 

“ Then you refuse me?” said Lucien, who had not listened. 

“Your wife would never forgive youl’^ 

“ What if I cause her to ask you for an invitation for me?” 

Jalbrun was astonished. 

“If you do that,” replied he, after a moment’s silence, “ I shall 
have no motive in refusing you; but I still adhere to what I said: 
You would do better to give a grand dinner, etc.” 

“ Very well. Come and dine with us and you will see.” 

“If you should influence Madame Romanet in advance, that 
will not be fair ” 

“ I give you my word not to speak to her about it except in 
your presence; besides, I promise that I will not leave you.” 

“ Come!” said Jalbrun, rising. 

A double ring at the bell announced the arrival of Lucien at 
his home. Jalbrun and he were in the hall when the soup was 
sent to the table. A moment after Annie, smiling and good- 
humored as usual, appeared in her place as mistress of the 
liouse. 

There were evidences of easy cii’cumstances in the arrange- 
ment of the apartments, in the whiteness of the linen, in the 
quality of the china, and the weight of the old silver; one felt 
that there was regularity in the house, that the accounts were 
well kept, the tradesmen paid, the servants well trained, and re- 
strained by a fear of being sent away from a desirable situation, 
where they could obtain good references. 

Even the steam which rose from the soup-tureen when the 
cover was removed showed the weU-ordered regularity of the 
household. It was the pot-au-feu^ the real family pot-au-feu, 
the national dish, of which cooks transmit the true recipe. 
Soup can be made in every country in the world; there has been 
such progress in chemistry in these days that soup can be made 
without meat and without vegetables : but all the different 
soups, decorated with the most sumptuous names, are worthless 
beside the French pot-au-feu. 

It has given its name, in bitter derision, to a class of women 
who believe domestic duties above worldly pleasures, wdio 
trouble themselves less about the elegance of a dress or a hat 
than the comfort of the family, who value little superficial show 
if the foundation is not solid. They are courageous managers, 
these pot-au-feu of France; that is to say, the essence of all that 
nourishes and strengthens: this pot-au-feu, so necessary to the 
happiness of all that even its detractors, after they have finished 


WILD OATS. 


49 


their tirades, hold out their empty plate and say: “ I should like 
to have a little more, please.” 

Lucien offered his plate for more, and Jalbrun, who was 
thinking what has just been written, looked at him with an 
amused air. Annie, seeing this look, w^anted to ask an ex- 
planation; but, seeing by the light in his eye that their friend 
was jesting, she changed her mind, and looked again at her 
husband. 

“ Do you like it ?” she asked him, in a manner that was al- 
most infantile. 

*‘It is excellent,” replied he, leaning back in his chair in the 
attitude of a happy man who is dining at home. 

Jalbrun continued to look at him with an air that said: 
“ Really, now! but Romanet ought to be contented.” 

Dinner continued without interruption until the roast was 
brought in, then the young husband recovered his energy at 
the sight of a chicken which it behooved him to carve. 

“Annie, have you heard of the ball at the Studio Courtois?” 
said he, plunging his knife into the side of the fowl. 

“Yes,” she answered; “they say it will be very comical.” 

“ I wish to go. Will it annoy you?” 

“I? Why should it? Go, by all means, if you wish,” said 
she, her good little face lighted up with pleasure. “Do you 
think that anything that would give you pleasure would displease 
me?” 

Lucien appeared to be occupied with his fowl. 

“ Ladies in society cannot go there, you know" — then,” con- 
tinued he. 

“ I think the men will not dance with each other,” said she, 
laughing; “it will be a httle mixed ” 

“Very much mixed, there will even be a medley,” suggested 
Jalbrun. “Not the men. Oh, no! the men will all be of the 
best; not from the Institute exactly — but outside the five 
Academies ” 

“ I understand,” said Annie, smiling. “ Are you going ?” 

“ Alas!” sighed Jalbi-un, comically. 

“ Well, why should Lucien not go ?” 

“He has no invitation,” replied the musician. 

“ Can you not get him one ?” 

“ Well, now ?” said Romanet, triumphantly, raising the carv- 
ing knife and fork, as rowers raise their oars to salute. 

Jalbrun opened his pocket-book and drew" from it a sheet of 
Holland paper w’hich was engraved in a very pretty design; it 
was a blank invitation; placing the sheet on his plate he pre- 
sented it to Lucien. 

“ Behold the keys of the city!” said he, with mock gravity. 

Annie looked from one to the other w"ith laughing eyes. 

“This is to say, dear madame, that the doors of that world 
are open to your husband — take notice that I have yielded — to 
his wish and to yours.” ^ 

The young wife examined with curiosity the bit of paper w hich 
represented so many things. It resembled all invitations of 
that kind, designed by a witty pencil— a little more highly 


50 


WILD OATS. 


colored perhaps, than one would have been for a ball in the 
Monceaux quarter, that was all. 

“What costume will you wear?” asked Jalbrun. 

“ Ah! must he wear a costume?” said Annie. 

“I have an Oriental friend who has costumes of all colors, 
we will examine them,” said Lucien, frankly. 

After dinner, when they had ^one to the studio to smoke, and 
the young wife went to see her little daughter sleep in her cradle, 
Jalbrun said to his comrade: 

“You are wickedly mischievous. You acted that as well as 
one of Scribe’s comedies.” 

Lucien smiled with an air of superiority disguised under an ap- 
pearance of modesty. 

“ My wife has confidence in me!” he replied. 

“ Behold how misplaced that confidence is!” Jalbrun was going 
to say: he restrained himself and said nothing, which was in- 
finitely wiser. 


CHAPTER XI. 

The ball was at its height when Lucien entered with Jalbrun 
and a dozen others; they came in groups thus to make a greater 
effect, and those who wished to display themselves to advantage 
came very late. The little troop was applauded, as much on 
account of the persons who composed it as for the very beautiful 
costumes which they wore. 

In about five minutes, in the general commotion, Lucien had 
lost his companions, and found himself alone, confused and 
wholly out of his element, with a vague moral impression that 
his tropical costume made him very cold about his legs. 

Nothing makes one more awkward than to vrear clothes to 
which one is unaccustomed; they are cold where they should be 
warm, and warm where they should be cold. They are loose where 
the habit requires tightness, and vice versa : the wearer is in a 
general state of torture that paralyzes his movements, and he is 
awkward because he is embarrassed, even if he is not so usually. 
To get rid of this disagreeable impression one should mingle in 
the riot of laughter and noise. Lucien felt himself quite alone, in 
the midst of this animated crowd. Solitude could never make 
him feel so sad or so neglected as loneliness like this. The brill- 
iant, moving spectacle before his eyes, only increased his bitter- 
ness, for he felt himself a stranger, and he saw nothing there 
that was particularly agreeable to him. 

A miscellaneous crowd elbowing each other where those little 
cliques of friends, had so skillfully banded together for their en- 
trance was broken up by this contact. Badly assorted colors jar- 
red upon each other; costumes that did not harmonize with the 
face or the figure of those who wore them — every one seeming de- 
sirous of dressing himself in what suited him the least; the rich- 
ness and beauty of the materials, the correctness .of tlie most 
splendid costumes, the beauty of the outline of which was lost 
in the multitude, and because of their too close pioximity to 
bright colors— that is what constitutes a masked ball, when it 


WILD OATS. 51 

has not taken for its distinct feature, to the exclusion of «very- 
thing else, a special epoch of a country or a century. 

Yet it was undoubtedly a magnificent ball. More diamonds 
never glittered on women’s necks, or richer and more tasteful cos- 
tumes never adorned men; but how could they prevent one per- 
son from wearing a costume that would not destroy the effect of 
another’s ? How resist the power of human will which would 
choose to chat or to dance with, not the dress but the person 
who wears it ? 

Leaning against the wall hung with magnificent Flanders tap- 
estry, Lucien thought of all these things, and said to himself 
that if he had given the ball, he would have known how to avoid 
all these incongruities. In an appropriate background, he would 
have united all the refined elegance of Watteau, the counterfeit 
country life of Trianon, with the splendors of the Noces Aldo- 
hrandine, and among the people dressed in the spirit of that time, 
these discrepancies of form and of color would not have appear- 
ed any more than they do in a drawing-room with modem sur- 
roundings. 

But Lucien had not come here, to be aesthetic; he did it be- 
cause he had nothing else to do to keep himself company; he 
felt out of place and bored because he did not recognize his 
friends under their changed appearance. The wigs bothered 
him; one person whom he thought he knew by name had dis- 
guised himself as Sancho Panza, which made him resemble 
some one else altogether. Deceived by resemblances, misled by 
the changes of physiognomy, his face became as piteous as the 
victim who is condemned to remain in the middle during a game 
of “puss in the comer.” 

Jalbrun gave him a friendly tap on the shoulder. 

“You play the part of the bored man admirably; do you not 
know your Gavarni? But you have not come here for that? 
Come over here, they are going to dance — here — this is the cor- 
ner for lookers-on; but, certainly, you did not get yourself up as 
Palikare merely to come and look on, did you ?” 

While chatting, he drew Lucien away; he led him in the midst, 
of a group of laddies, who were talking animatedly. 

“Here IS a gentleman,” said he, “a real one, who dances. I 
caught him in the act; he dances in drawing-rooms. Take good 
care of him, ladies. Men who dance are very rare. You have 
to know’ them to appreciate their worth.” 

The orchestra played a new waltz, w hich was not as good as 
the old ones, perhaps, but it set the whole crowd into motion. 
Romanet not knowing exactly how it happened, soon found 
himself spinning around like the others, with a woman in his 
arms. 

In society he was a good wallzer, but here he found himself 
embarrassed; yet his partner waltzed well, keeping exact step 
with the music; after having trodden two or three times upon 
the feet of passing couples the young painter regained his pres- 
ence of mind, and for the first time looked at the woman whom 
he held in his arms. 

She was neither ugly nor pretty, which saved her from one 


52 


WILD OATS. 


drawback, which was, that she appeared better than she really 
was. Lucien became bolder as he went on ; he began to recog- 
nize many of the female celebrities of the day among the 
dancers, and tliey did not appear so very ugly, or, at least, not 
uglier than in their street costumes. After awhile he be^an to 
see that even the prettiest of them were made ugly by their dis- 
guises; he had not understood this at first, and his error was a 
benefit to his companion. 

When the orchestra stopped Lucien was near an Oriental divan, 
his partner threw herself down upon it, laughing; he seated 
himself by her side. 

She talked to him for ten minutes without his having heard a 
word that she said; he replied at random, without caring what 
he said. During all this time he "was looking around at the 
loud, noisy groups, and he thought; 

“ This, then, is the society that I wish to know ?” 

He was more surprised than charmed; he was annoyed that 
he did not experience any new sensation. What he saw there 
he had seen and felt before, and if he had been frank with him- 
self, he would have [acknowledged [that he was greatly bored. 

He did not know wliat to say, he had no reason to go too far 
and he felt that he was not expected here to pay the elegant 
compliments that a coquettish and pretty society- lady demands 
as her right, and who likes to hear herself praised, but with 
whom it is impossible to overstep certain bounds. 

Little by little Romanet became more at his ease. Chance 
separated him from his first partner And he joined groups where 
he had friends. He was droll and amusing: some friendly 
tongues had whispered to charitable ears that this was the 
delmt of a novice in this sort of society, and they all showed 
themselves very indulgent for the shortcomings of a new- 
comer. 

After supper he was so amusing that he achieved a great 
triumph. His society manners mingled so comically with his 
desire to commit follii's, and thus put himself upon a level with 
the others, that he went beyond all limits, and surpassed him- 
self with infinite grace. 

Toward three o clock, the woman with whom he hadjwaltzed, 
went to him and took his arm to renew their tender conversa- 
tion; she was a beautiful blonde with bold eyes, with whom he 
had exchanged several jests, and she planted herself audaciously 
before him. 

“ You have to talk with me,” said she. 

When he looked at her, Lucien recognized the woman 
who had passed him on the road at Arcachon and who had so 
undeniably ridiculed him. A fever of vanity seized him and he 
measured eyes with his adversary. 

“You want to talk ?” said he. “ As much as you like.” 

He gave her his arm and they went away. 

The St. Augustine clock struck seven when, on a rainy, 
gloomy March morning Romanet got out of a carriage, to the 
great amusement of some urchins who were passing by, still 
dressed in his Palikare costume. 


WILD OATS. 


53 


He held his key in his hand for nothing in the world 
could have induced him to ring the bell; he entered almost fear- 
ful, certainly ashamed, and asking only one thing of Heaven, 
that he might be spared meeting any of his servants before he 
had dressed himself in bis every-day clothes.. 

The antechamber was deserted, he stole into his studio like a 
thief, and closing and locking the door threw himself down on 
the divan. 

“ What is fast life ? It is spending one’s time like that that 
gives one the title of a man of the world!” He felt completely 
disgusted with it all; the supper had disagreed with him, the 
champagne had made his bead ache, he was saturated with the 
dust of the ball, and that woman 

Since midnight until now he had not dared to think of Annie. 
Each time that her memory had come to him he had driven it 
away, as one frightens away birds, with abrupt motions and 
noise. But this was no longer possible; she was here, and he 
must go to see her. 

At this thought he put his head in his hands with an unspeak- 
able sadness, which increased more and more, like a wave ready 
to drown him. 

How beautiful his love for Annie had been! How much he 
had longed for her without a single unworthy thought, and the 
day in which she had been given to him, with what deep joy, 
with what intense solemnity had he taken her in his arms! 

Since then she had become even dearer to him; he could hot 
remember a single day that she had not rendered herself precious 
to him by some endearing mark of tenderness, by some grace, 
some goodness, like a golden beam in his life. 

What had she done that she should suffer ? What had she 
done to deserve the torture that would afflict her heart if she 
knew ? But she should never know, oh, never! 

There was a noise in the antechamber. Lucien was seized 
with fright, and hastily tore off his masquerade costume and 
threw it from him, then he hurriedly put on his working clothes, 
and unbolted the door to allow any one to enter. As he passetl 
by the mirror he turned and looked at himself, disgusted. 

The household was stirring now; it would soon be necessary 
to show himself to those Avho loved him— who respected him. 
Fortunately, Mme. Orliet was at Mantes; he was exceedingly 
glad of that, for, under her shai-p eyes, he would not know how 
to look. 

Summoning all his courage, he crossed the drawing-room 
and entered his dressing-room. He wished to wash off all the 
contamination that had accumulated upon himself since last 
evening. 

As soon as the water sti-eamed from the faucet into the marble 
basin, with a gurgling noise, and he felt the cold, wet cloth on 
his body, his former elasticity came back to his weary limbs; 
he felt as if he had awakened from a bad dream. 

With feverish haste he washed from his hair and his beard the 
strong perfume that he had brought home with him, and then 
be felt more like his usual self, and after he had perfumed him- 


54 


WILD OATS. 


self with the sweet odor of the violets that Annie loved, he 
dressed, and felt master of himself again. 

A door opened near him; he trembled, and saw by a glance in 
the mirror that he was very pale; but by a violent effort he 
pulled himself together, and went into his wife’s room. 

Lying in a great bed covered with blue silk, she had just 
opened her eyes, and still blinked at the daylight: 

“Oh, Lucien!” said she, “here you are at last! I waited so 
late, so late for you! until four o’clock!” 

Lucien bent over her to give her her usual morning kiss, but 
more than that he did not venture. She put her arms around 
his neck, and drew him down to her. He withdrew, discon- 
tented and uneasy. 

“Why did you wait for me?” he asked. “I told you that I 
should not return till very late.” 

“ One never does what one wishes,” said she, raising herself 
on her pillow. “ I made up my mind not to wait for you, and 
I went to bed; but then I waited after all — I read. Oh, if you 
knew how tiresome the book was that I read. Was it very late 
when you came ?” 

“Not very late, comparatively, but after you went to sleep.” 

“You came and I did not hear you! Was I sleeping very 
soundly, tell me ?” 

“ Very soundly.” 

He lied badly; his lies cost him a horrible effort, and besides 
all that he lied without absolute necessity. He did not know 
why, but lying seemed an essential part of the life that he had 
led the night before. 

“Was the ball amusing?” asked Annie, playing with the 
locks of hair about his face. 

“ It was amusing. There were many beautiful costumes.” 

“ And the women. Tell me, Lucien, how were the women 
dressed ?” 

“ Peuh!” said the young man, looking out of the window. 

“You shall tell me all about it while we take breakfast. Will 
you ring the bell, and have the little one brought in ?” 

Romanet touched the bell. A singular impression of the 
badly learnt and badly rehearsed rote that he was playing, 
haunted him since he had returned. He feared lest he should 
make some blunder that would betray him, which caused his 
movements to be very awkward. 

“Where did you sleep last night?” suddenly asked Annie. 
“ It was not here.” 

If a thunder-storm had burst over his head, Lucien could not 
liave been more confounded than he was by this simple ques- 
tion. 

He looked into his wife’s eyes to see if she had any motive. 

No, she had asked frankly, regretting a little tnat her dear 
husband, whose comfort she so tenderly cared for, might not 
have slept well elsewhere. 

“ Oh, I was on the divan in the studio,” said he, with consider- 
able presence of mind. “ I made myself quite comfortable, 
with plenty of curtains and the Oriental tapestry.” 


WILD OATS. 55 

Annie made a pretty face, and slightly shrugged her shoul- 
ders. 

“Would it not have been better to have come here? You 
would not disturb me, as you say I was sleeping so soundly.” 

The nurse entered, bringing the baby, who was rosy and 
happy, as babies always are so early in the morning. Lucie n 
had to submit to the ceremony of his daily caresses, and to play 
with his daughter as usual. But everything seemed false and 
empty to him; he had a taste of poison in his mouth, and a hor- 
rible pity for himself and for others in his soul. 

At last the child was taken away. 

Annie sent her husband away that she might dress, and 
Lucien took his chololate alone in the dining-room; he heard the 
servant sweeping and cleaning the studio. 

“ I am going to commence work at once,” said he to himself — 
“ only hard work can restore my equilibrium.” 

But he soon found that he was in no condition to work. 
Throwing aside his brushes, he went out to try to walk off his 
strange feelings. 

Men of his circle, as was well known, did habitually what he 
had done! What was there criminal in it? Did he love his 
dear little wife any the less? On the contrary, she had become 
dearer to him. But then that kind of life — it cannot be denied 
— it was very amusing. The recollection of his success, the 
night before, caused him to smile. Success was not so difficult in 
the end. There were plenty of fashionable people who had not 
half as much wit as he, and as to the rest, ah! well, he had only 
done as others did. One could not suppose that he was going to 
spend all his life tied to his wife’s apron-string. A love match 
— that was all very well — but love is not everything in life, and 
something is due to one’s reputation. Had not that woman con- 
fessed to mm last night, that for three years he had been held 
up to ridicule, a laughing stock, not only for himself but for his 
model family life. Now he was free! He had emancipated 
himself. 

He felt himself so much so, that he intended to go to a res- 
taurant to breakfast, instead of remaining at home: but as he still 
had some regard for the respect due his wife, he sent a messen- 
ger with a line to her begging her to excuse him, and giving as 
a reason an engagement that he had forgotten the night before. 
The messenger went off, and he felt perfectly at ease and break- 
fiisted with a very good appetite. 

After he had finished, it was so late that it was hai-dly worth 
while to go home; he went off to see a popular exhibition, then 
he returned to the boulevard in a roundabout way and saunt- 
ered al^ut during the fashionable hour. 

In less than three quarters of an hour he saw one-twentieth of 
the people whom he had met at the ball; the compliments that 
he received would have turned a stronger bead than his. 

The Romanet who had thus revealed himself did not in the 
least resemble the correct young man, “the favorite of the 
Salons,” said those who rained him. His success had been so 
great, that he had even excited envy, veritable condemnation, 


56 


WILD OATS 


indisputable and legitimate consequences of all dawning glory. 
Lucien was modest, just enough to show that he was not, so 
that the malicious amused themselves inflating him with praise. 
He had so much wit, so much drollery! Who would have 
thought it? Just when the young man found out by their ex- 
travagance that they were "teasing him, Jalbrun came only to 
relieve him from this embarrassment, and they went off to- 
gether. 

“Ah, well,” said he, “you have blossomed out! You will be 
welcomed everywhere now. Behold, you are one of us!” 

He looked at his friend in such an odd way that Lucien 
blushed. 

“ You have made your debut, you ought to be satisfied! AVhat 
you have lost is not worth what you have gained, but I warned 
you of that. Now, take care of yourself, I will not longer under- 
take to pilot you.” 

“ Why?” asked Komanet. 

“Because you appear to be able to pilot yourself alone !” re- 
plied the musician. 

Time went on; Lucien felt that he ought to go home, but he 
had no desire to do so; he resigned himself, in a very bad 
humor, and took the longest possible route to pass off the time. 
At last he arrived there and soon found himself seated in his 
Usual place, opi^osite Annie. 

She was gay. After a tender little reproach to her husband 
for leaving her to breakfast alone, she sp^ke no more about it, 
hut tried to make him tell her of the ball and the costumes 
there. But Lucien thought no more of that! No, truly, he 
had forgotten all about it ! 

Now she cried out, somewhat astonished, and looked at him 
a little haughtily. 

“I do not understand that curiosity about people whom you 
ought not to have the slightest desire to know ! Really, women 
of society no longer Imow how to maintain their dignity ! 
What difference does it make to you about the dresses, the 
hair, the beauty of such and such a one for whom you have 
the most profound contempt ?” 

Annie looked down in her plate like a child who had been 
scolded. 

“ Then, Lucien, the men, anyway tell me about the men, 
they are proper ! You cannot tell me that that is misplaced 
curiosity ! Jalbrun, for example, whom did Jalbrun represent? 
Did he really go as a Turk, as he said he would ? Really, that 
is not possible! And your friend, the other one, who always 
paints red women before a mirror, what was he ? Do you not 
wish to tell me ?” 

’ Romanet could remember nothing, nothing but the spangles, 
the embroidery, the Oriental arms, the lights and the supper, 
then the drive home in the carriage; 

“ I had a horrible headache,” said he, severely. “ I did not 
wish to speak of it this morning, but you drove me crazy with 
your questions. I remember nothing but that it was a complete 


WILD OATS. 


57 


hubbub — if you wish for the details ask Jalbrun, he did not ap- 
pear to have a headache.” 

This phrase, so full of significance, led Annie to suspect that 
Jalbrun had committed all sorts of horrible things, and she 
blushed up to her ears. 

Ask a man who, under such circumstances, had not even had 
a headache! Never! Annie would prefer to remain ignorant 
all her life as to what costume was worn by her husband’s friend 
who made a specialty of painting red women standing before 
mirrors, or what any of his other friends wore, and any of the 
celebrated people who had compromised tliemselves in that 
doubtful society. 

The newspapers the next day would tell her all that anybody 
could know, and she considered her curiosity as satisfied. 

“ You must go to bed early to-night,” she said in a caressing 
tone, “ We will have a little music, shall we ?*’ 

“ I have to go out,” said he, abruptly. “I shall not remain 
very late, but do not wait for me.” 

“ Ah!” said Annie, disappointed. “ I had hoped that we should 
spend such a pleasant evening together.” 

“Sorry, mv darling, impossible. It is on business.” 

“ An order?” 

“Probably.” 

“ Go, then,” sighed the young wife. 

After dinner, while smoking, he executed on the studio floor, 
a great variety of steps that expressed his indecision. Shouhl 
he go or should he not go ? Would it not be better to remain 
quietly at home? But then, down there, they would ridicule 
him. And besides he owed some attention to this woman for 
whom he had bought some jewelry during the afternoon. He 
liad met her, certainly, in artistic surroundings, not in the 
street; he could not expose himself to be called that sort of a 
blackguard. 

Toward ten o’jclock, he put on his evening suit, ordered a car- 
riage and went away. 

His enchantress was not alone. She for whom, without love, 
without even the allusion of a sentiment, for a mere caprice, lie 
had severed all his honest and tranquil past. They played a 
moderate game at her house, talking about stocks while hand 
ling the cards. Nothing in her conduct recalled the exaggerated 
hilarity of the preceding night in this interior which resembled 
nearly all others, only the laughter was a little more hearty, and 
conversation was, perhaps, a little louder. Lucien felt more and 
more ill at ease, and was suddenly seized with a desire to go 
away. 

The lady of the house saw this on his face, for she approached 
him, and he made a place for her on his little sofa. He was 
going to take the jewel-case from lus pocket, but she prevented 
him by a gesture. 

“ You will stay, will you not ?” said she. 

He was on the point of saying “ No,” but he looked at* her, 
and in that woman’s black eyes he saw something that he hafl 
not yet suspected; he understood that he was a child, as he was 


58 


WILD OATS. 


the evening before — that one does not drain in a few hours the 
cup of deceitful voluptuousness, and this woman who looked at 
him with those eyes would tease him more than ever if he left 
her thus. 

“I will stay,” said he. 

She placed her hand upon that of the young man for a moment 
and then arose. He remained there, stupefied, not knowing what 
to do nor what he wished to do. Meanwhile he trembled at some- 
thing, he did not know what. 

He went away at three o’clock in the morning completely 
dazed. The sullying breath which had just touched him had 
taken away forever the halo of his pure and happy youth. He 
was no longer himself, he was the prey to human passion. 

When he re-entered his own house he no longer felt the pangs 
of remorse, the shamed embarrassment of the night before; bub 
he was almost angry at the ties which constrained him to return 
and to lie about it. 

Lucien went noisily into Annie’s room. Why should he care 
whether he awakened her or not ? It was necessary that she 
should become accustomed to seeing him return at all hours! 
Was he going to be eternally the slave of old-fashioned preju- 
dices ? He was a man, he was master in his own house, he did 
not have to render account of himself to any one, and'they should 
soon see that ! 

By the light of a china night-lamp he saw that Annie was 
asleep. She scarcely opened her eyes at his approach, and then 
closed them immediately. A vague smile fiitted over her lips; 
with a sleepy gesture she had tried to put out her hand to him, 
but sleep conquered her. Annie had not yet suffered. She did 
not know the pain of sleeplessness. Her sleep was peaceful and 
sound, as her days were peaceful and without sorrow. 

Lucien had recoiled at his wife’s movement, A terrible and 
insurmountable obstacle had suddenly raised itself between him 
and the gentle sleeper; how should he dare now to touch those 
pure lips with his that were sullied ? 

He had not thought of that. He had said to himself; “ I have 
done only as others do!” and he had not foreseen that his hon- 
orable and faithful past should forbid him what others allowed 
themselves. At the moment when, saturated with the voluptu- 
ousness that he had sought, and feverishly waiting for the mor- 
row to come, he found himself in the presence of his loved and 
respected wife, he felt that he could never hold her in his arms 
again for the guilty consciousness of having embraced the other 
one. 

“ The other one!” He trembled at the thought of the other 
one, whom he had just left, and asked himself what he should 
do if Annie should awaken at that moment and suddenly ask 
him: “ Whence comes that perfume that I do not know?” 

If she should press the matter, and, made courageous by her 
outraged modesty, say to him, “What are you doing here? 
Return, at once, where you came from.” 

He looked at her, thinking she moved. No, she slept, a sleep 
so calm, so peaceful that he could not hear her breathe. 


WILD OATS. 59 

“I can never endure this agony,” thought he, “Anything 
would be better than this!” 

Renounce tlie other ? He never thought of that for the millionth 
part of a second. His feverish mind would not admit even that 
such a thing was possible. But to get rid of his wife, to get her 
away from there, to gain time — who knows ? Perhaps in a few 
days he would be more master of himself. Perhaps, disgusted 
with what now intoxicatc'd him, he could dispel the unwholsome 
dream as one awakens from a nightmare. 

“ It is necessary that she should go away,” said he to himself. 
“ I will send her to her mother’s with the child.” 

This resolution weighed on his mind as a piece of lead which 
enters by force of its weight, and he felt himself capable of any 
severity to carry out the execution of his project. He no longer 
wished for anything but that — the rest was of little consequence. 

And then, satisfied with his idea which seemed to remove all 
obstacles — he did not wish to think of the future— he slowly un- 
dressed and went to bed, thinking, with wicked obstinacy, that 
to-morrow he would be free. 

His head scarcely touched his pillow before he slept a heavy 
dreamless sleep. 


CHAPTER XII. 

The next day he awoke late. At the moment when he was 
asking himself what time it was, Annie’s blonde head appeared 
in the half-opened window. 

“ You have well made up for your lost night,” said she laugh- 
ing. “It is eleven o’clock! yes, eleven o’clock! Oh! you lazy 
boy! And the sun is shining brightly as if to poke fun at you!” 

Lucien tried to collect his ideas; still heavy with sleep, he 
feared lest he might say something that would betray him, and 
he no longer knew where he was. The caresses of the other’s 
voice still sounded in his ears. 

“ Annie,” said he. 

She entered and went to him with her child in her arms. 

“Look at mademoiselle,” said the young wife, “see how 
beautiful we are to-day! I do not know what is the matter with 
her, but she has been laughing all the morning ever since she 
awoke; it must be the fine weather.” 

Annie drew aside the curtains and Lucien saw the sun shining 
on the avenue. 

He was fully awake now, and his plan returned to him per- 
sistently. 

“ You must take advantage of this beautiful blue sky^nd go 
and visit your mother for a few days. It will do you and Loui- 
sette a great deal of good.” 

“That is a good idea!” said Annie, joyously. “When shall 
we go ?” 

“ You can take the train at four o’clock,” said the young 
man. 

“Well, and you?” said she, rather anxiously. 

“I? Oh, I am obliged to remain here. For several days I 


WILD OATS. 


m 

have been idle, and I have heard that a rich amateur is coming 
to tlie studio. I wish to finish the picture that I have commenc- 
ed. I have ouly eight days for that.” 

“ Ah, well, nothing is easier. We will go to Mantes together 
after you have finished it.” 

“ Are you sure that the sun will wait for you ?” replied Lucien, 
with an effort. “ I observe that Louisette has been a little pale 
for the last few days.” 

“Do you think so?” said the young mother, suddenly fright- 
ened. 

He felt remorse for having caused this useless fear, but since 
she persisted in remaining near him, it was her own fault. 

“Yes,” replied he, repeating his falsehood. “ She has not ap- 
peared to be very well.” 

The laughing air of the little girl belied him openly, but 
mothers are easily alarmed, 

“ Go with her at once,” continued he; “ and as soon as I shall 
have finished, I will go and join you. We will have a happy 
holiday down there.” 

“ You will come — soon — this week?” 

“ Yes,” replied Lucien, with a nod to each of these questions. 

“Then I shall have to embrace you,” sighed she. “Baby, 
embrace your wicked papa, who sends us away from him.” 

Baby extended her fat little hands to her papa, who absently 
caressed her. 

“ This evening you will dine alone — if I should not go until 
to-morrow,” said Annie, regretfully. 

“And if it should rain to morrow, how can you go with the 
child in the rain ?” 

Annie had it on her lips to say: 

“Is it so very necessary that I should go, after all?” 

But there was something so hard and obstinate in her hus- 
band’s eyes, as he looked at her, that she restrained herself. 

“ Very well,” said she, “ we will go.” 

She went .away; and Lucien, when alone, congratulated him- 
self upon the success of his ruse, while in the depths of his heart 
he was disgusted with himself for the part he had just played. 

When the young wife came, just before her departure, to take 
leave of her husband, her face was sad, She embraced him ten- 
derly and made the child embrace him ; then, with the nurse, 
she went toward the antechamber, but turned to her husband 
and looked at him with her clear eyes. 

“You will not go, decidedly?” said she, caressingly. 

“You know very well that it is impossible,” said he, with im- 
patieppe. 

“ And you wish me to go? A word from you and I will re- 
main — ^it will be so easy ” 

“ Heavens, my dear,” said Lucien, nervously, “ if you did not 
wish to go wdiy did you not say so this morning? Now do not 
make yourself ridiculous by changing your mind for a whim, 
and before the servants, too.” 

Annie drew back a step, looking at her husband in a sort of 
terror, 


WILD OATS. 


61 


“ Can you speak to me like that?’’ said she. 

Xiucien put down his palette and took her in his arms. 

“ Come,” said he, “ do not be a child. You know that I dis- 
like vacillation. Now, when the nurse is waiting for you in the 
antechamber, you ask if you shall remain; confess that it is ab- 
surd! Let us embrace each other and go quickly, or you will 
lose the train.” 

“ T have time enough,” said Annie, sadly, « I allowed myself 
plenty of time.” 

He did not reply, and returned to his picture. 

“ reuoir, then,” said the young wife. “Come soon, will 
you not, Lucien ?” 

“ Oh, certainly; in a few days, more or less.” 

“ A it reuoir,” she said again, walking regretfully toward the 
door. 

She hoped that he w^onld call her back, or at least turn around. 
He did not move; he appeared wholly absorbed in the canvas. 

“ Adfew,” said she, as she stood on the threshold. 

He turned his head toward her and made a slight sign without 
looking at her. 

He felt horribly cruel and contemptible; but, to save his life, 
he would not have had her return. 

The hall door closed, the carriage drove away, and Lucien felt 
himself alone. An unspeakable relief came to him in the midst 
of his remorse. Anything was better than to continue this mis- 
erable life of lies and of struggles. Now, at least, he would no 
longer have to resort to shameful subterfuges; he would go and 
come when he chose, without having to account to anybody for 
his conduct. 

He felt such a joyous relief that he began to dance. 

“ Be serious,” said he to himself. “ What if she should miss 
the train and come back!” 

He was going to enjoy himself — not to work — he had a horror 
of work, he would pass the time till half -past four in dressing 
himself, at his leisure. Then, after the clock struck, he said to 
himself that he no longer had anything to fear and he went out. 

Those who saw him going down the Boulevard Malesherbes, 
with his joyous manner and his head on high, said to themselves: 
“ There is a man who is thoroughly satisfied with himself!” 

This proves only how deceitful appearances are: Romanet was 
satisfied, that was certain, but not with himself. 

He went triumphantly to the house of the other one ; she re- 
ceived him coolly, she was in a bad temper; her dressmaker had 
disappointed her about a dress, and her dog had the gout. For 
three-quarters of an hour she grumbled, pouted, and was im- 
pertinent. Lucien found it all charming. This was only a 
part of his apprenticeship, and he felt that he must go right 
along in the current. It all ended in their going out to a res- 
taurant to dine together. 

Everything amused Romanet in this trip to the forbidden 
country. He was young enough to be almost a child yet; he 
felt in his pleasure the kind of satisfaction that children 
feel after they have played a ^ame that has been expressly for- 


62 


WILD OATS, 


bidden by papa and mamma. He greedily devoured the apple 
for which the legend has blamed Eve (because that legend 
was invented by men), and he found in that rotten apple a sweeter 
perfume than that of the wild strawberry. 

When, after dinner, that woman said to him: “ Come, let us 
go to the theater,” and for the first time in his life he entered a 
theater with a woman who was not his wife or relative, it 
gave the idea that he was perfectly at ease as a man of the world. 
His companion was scarcely pretty; she was large and elegant, 
and the use of various artifices had achieved a sort of dazzling 
beauty that deceived at the first glance. Such as she was, she 
did him honor, as far as it is possible for an intelligent man to 
be honored by this sort of thing. 

Lucien did not return home that night. He did not conde- 
scend to any vulgar precautions, he did not attempt to explain 
to his servants why their master had not slept in his bed. It was 
very singular that though he would have been wretched to have 
Annie know that he had spent the night at an hotel and had re- 
tired very late, yet he made no attempt at concealment. His 
vanity revolted at the thought of being blamed, and out of bra- 
vado, he seemed to wish for a discovery. With what could he 
be reproached? He had done only what everybody else did! 

The woman, whom he had thus advertised, believed that ‘:he 
had secured him, and she gloried in it. She held him througli 
the bad side of his nature. When he talked sensibly and pru- 
dently, she held her sides laughing, and called him a cherub; she 
ridiculed his family, she treated him as if he were a student out 
for a lark; and he, though mortified, affected not to care for 
these drolleries, which, if they had been uttered by a man, would 
have ended in his knocking him down. 

He did not like to be ridiculed — she constantly teased him; he 
could not endure reproaches, she wished to qua^el all the time; 
but the moment that he took his hat to go away, she looked at 
him in a certain way, went slowly to him, and he, despising him- 
self, yet incapable of leaving, remained to find forgetfulness on 
tlie lips of that woman whom he loathed — and yet she was mak- 
ing herself necessary to him. 

It was not she herself that was necessary to him; it was the 
excitement of that kind of life. j^Hl his life he had been honest; 
firstly on account of his father’s teachings, and then from habit; 
and now Lucien wished for the freedom that he had never had. 

The brutal instincts which lie dormant in every living being, and 
which are only repressed by a strong will — or perhaps by force of 
habit, which is equivalent to will — the irresistible desire to know 
all, to drink of every cup, however commonplace it may be 
—strange, but true — ^a desire to taste every human vice— all 
these ideas had seized Lucien with an unwholesome but imperi- 
ous intoxication, and he no longer reasoned or raised his voice 
to protest. 

He was now seen constantly in company with men who made 
pleasure their occupation; every evening he went to some 
place of amusement and felt a keen satisfaction in hearing pep* 
pic say behind his back; 


WILT) OATS. 


6B 


“ The elegant Romanet ? Yes, that is he I” 

He no longer worked. Work required a cool head and a firm 
hand. 

Those who wish to live by work cannot permit themselves 
these excuses; they cannot deceive so exacting a master — if you 
betray him, he wiU leave you. So Lucien no longer went to his 
studio. He went home every day; it was necessary to change 
his clothes, but he did not take his meals at his house, prefer- 
ring the doubtful cooking of the fashionable restaurants to 
the well-made dishes of his own cook. Besides he. could not re- 
main alone. He had to have the company of a friend, of two 
friends, of half a dozen friends, to prevent him from thinking. 
He had not allowed himself to reflect once, but he felt that the 
moment for serious thought would come, and that caused him 
a most disagreeable impression that he wished to drive away. 

Days went by, each one bringing a letter from Annie. The 
little daughter was well, the weather at Mantes was flne, the 
garden was full of birds who were building their nests, the 
island was becoming greener and greener every day. 

Then came the direct questions: “ Is Lucien not coming? Was 
not his picture finished yet ? Then leave it and come and take a 
little rest; he must be lonely to live away from his family so 
long.” 

Romanet replied by telegrams. This mode of correspondence 
which prevented any details accorded perfectly with the state of 
his mind. 

But this could not go on forever, he must send a definite an- 
swer. It was surprising that Annie had not yet proposed to re- 
turn; this reserve made Lucien somewhat uneasy; he would 
have been still more uneasy if he had known the cause of it. 

When her daughter arrived, Mme. Orliet was at first en- 
chanted. But they had scarcely dined together when Annie’s 
assumed gayety forsook her, wdth the heightened color on her 
cheeks; her eyes had a melancholy expression, and notwith- 
standing her wish to appear happy, she could not conceal her 
secret sorrow. 

Something was the matter with Lucien, that was sure! He 
had listened to her as he w^oiild to an importunate being. How 
could she have annoyed him? All winter she had been very 
much occupied — perhaps too much so — with her little daughter, 
and she had not had much time to importune her husband ! They 
had scarcely gone into society five or six times; it was a long 
time since Lucien had made calls with her. He had declared that 
calls during the daytime bored him: this was not surprising, for 
few gentlemen who had occupations made calls during those 
hours; but the result was that she saw very little of Lucien ex- 
cept at meals. 

She stopped there, fearing lest she had said too much. Mme. 
Orliet tried to find out more, but Annie looked at her furtively 
through the mist which covered her eyes. How she longed to 
throw her arms about her mother’s neck, as she used to do, and 
tell her all those vague sorrows that made her young soul so sad I 
But what was there to tell her? Properly speaking, these sorrows 


64 


WILD OATS. 


did not exist; they were only apprehensions without foundation, 
some puerile fears; and was it not calumniating Lucien to com- 
plain of him ? Of what, in fact, could she reproach him, unless 
it was that he had suddenly sent her off to Mantes? 

And, perhaps, he had some good reason for that, that he had 
not given her. 

She was seized with a horrible idea. What if it was a duel ? 
What if Lucien, at the ball about which he did not wish to 
speak, had had some unpleasant encounter, from which a quar- 
rel had resulted ? 

She felt herself grow pale at the thought, which increased to a 
real persecution. Incapable of remaining silent toward her 
mother, she pretended that she had a severe headache and went 
to bed. 

She wept half tlie night; clasping her hands she cojistantly 
repeated, “ My God, my God! preserve him from all harm!” 
Overcome with fatigue she slept until daylight, and when she 
awoke she heard the cries of the newsboys, crying the daily 
papers. She immediately sent for the journals, perused them 
eagerly, and then to assure herself of his safety she wrote to 
him again. 

The same evening she received a telegram in reply. 

After twenty -four hours of agony, finding that no misfortune 
had happened to him, she tried to calm herself and confess her 
chimeras to Mme. Orliet. 

“Can you understand,” she said to her, “how I can imagine 
such things ?” 

Her mother was not so much surprised as Annie had fancied 
that she would be. Notwithstanding the silence that she had 
maintained, she understood that something had happened be- 
tween the young couple. Not that she could understand, with- 
out other kno wedge, the depth of the misfortune; she did not 
believe that the Tinion of the two young people had been so 
deeply shaken; but she understood that Lucien, weary of his 
happiness, wished to embellish his life wath a few adventures. 
He had had too much happiness; the regularity of his home had 
become monotonous to him; to take off the halter that he 
felt too heavy around his neck, he had sent his wife and his child 
to the country. All that was not serious. After a few lonely 
days, Romanet would become tired of the disorder which almost 
infalliby reigns when the mistress of the house is absent. Poor 
dinners and bad attention would soon disgust him with the 
liberty that he had so much desired. 

Yet a week passed and Lucien did not speak of coming to 
Mantes. 

“He will not come,” said Annie one day, turning away from 
her mother that she might not see her weep. 

When she found that her voice did not tremble, she said: 

“ I think that I ought to return to Paris.” 

“Do not do so without telling him,” cried Mme. Orliet, with 
a sort of instinctive prudence. “Perhaps he has some bother 
y ith which he does not wish to trouble you,” 


WILD OATS. 65 

“Whafc could he have that he cannot tell me ?” demanded 
Annie quickly, 

“How can I know? A debt, perhaps. Supposing he has 
become responsible for some friend ” 

Mme. Orliet sought for reasons, good or bad, to explain her 
son-in-law’s conduct. She found nothing better than this, and 
this was not sufficient. 

Tlien, as fate would have it, Mme. Romanet, the mother, wlio 
regretted not having seen her son since New Year, went to see 
Annie to inquire about him. The worthy woman loved her son 
very much, but with the usual perversity of mcthers-in-law, and, 
above all, those of the country, it appeared to her that Annie 
never did the right thing. 

“ I do not wish to vex you, my dear child,” said she to the 
voung wife, “ and I know that it is very pleasant for you here, 
but it seems to me that it is about time for you to go home, or 
else have Lucien come here; believe me, it is not good for young 
married people to be separated so long from each other.” 

Poor Annie listened to all this with a resigned air and replied 
yes to all that was expected of her. Happily, Mme. Romanet 
was not a very persistent woman; she did not exact any promise, 
nor fix any date for the return, and she went away enchanted 
with her task as a mother-in-law. 

“Ought I to write to Lucien that 1 am going back ?” asked 
Annie of her mother when they were alone. 

“ No, wait till he asks you,” was the reply. 

But Lucien did not ask anything of the kind. Every day he 
telegraphed something like this: 

“ Received letter. Health excellent. Everything all right. 
Take care of yourself. Embrace Louisette and her grand- 
mother.’ 

This was not compromising and it told nothing to any one. 
The twelfth day after her daughter’s arrival Madame Orliet 
went to Paris and marched into her son-in-law’s house at break- 
fast hour. She always did this when she visited them, so that 
there was now nothing extraordinary in this early visit. 

As soon as she had rung the bell she understood how things 
had been going on. She was kept waiting before the door was 
opened, because Lucien now always let himself in with his 
ke}% and the bell meant a visitor, and the servants did not hurry 
themselves to open the door to visitors when their master was 
absent. 

It was not the valet who opened the door but tlie cook, who 
came u}) slowly from below, wiping her hands on her apron. 
She was very croSs, but when she saw Mme. Orliet, the expres- 
sion of her face changed to a smile of satisfaction. 

Like most cooks, she <lid not like the husband. Mme. Orliet’s 
visit could portend no good to him, and she was delighted. Be- 
sides, her vanity suffered, for since her mistress went away her 
master had not tdken a meal in the house. 

She took Mme. Orliet into the studio, where the latter saw at 
once that her son-in-law Imd not been at worlc. The dry palette. 


66 WILD OATS. 

and the state of the paint on the unfinished picture, abundantly 
proved that. 

“ Has monsieur gone out? He will return to breakfast, will 
he not ?” said -Ajinie’s mother. 

“Monsieur has gone out,” replied the cook, in a tone that 
could not be misunderstood. “ I do not think that he will return 
to breakfast; since madame left monsieur has not eaten at 
home.” 

“ Then try to get me some breakfast,” said Mrae. Orliet, 
coldly. 

The cook went off hurriedly. After a few minutes, a noise 
was heard in the dining-room, which indicated that the table 
was being laid. Mme. Orliet went to her daughter’s room to 
get some things that Annie had asked her to bring. 

The room was cold and deserted; the place had an uninhab- 
ited air that could not be mistaken, and a detail which nearly 
stupefied Mme. Orliet; the bed was prepared for the night, the 
spread taken off, awaiting its occupant. 

It is amazing to think that such a small, material item, absurd 
in itself, could crush the respect that had grown year after year 
in this sincere soul. Who ever would have had the hardihood 
to say to Mme. Orliet that her son-in-law had abandoned her 
daughter, would have been treated as a calumniator; this bed 
prepared for him who had not come, and left thus by the negli- 
gent servants, was a silent and pitiless accuser. Annie’s mother 
seated herself in a low arm-chair, and remained overwhelmed. 

Then Lucien had not come home! Here was the explanation 
to Ids silence; poor Annie, who had thought of a duel, she had 
never thought of a desertion! She could imagine her husband 
struck by a ball, or by a sword, — she had never imagined that he 
would deceive her. 

“ For what wretched woman?” asked Mme. Orliet of herself. 
She preserved a calm exterior in her maternal anguish; she was 
a courageous woman, who would be crushed without a change of 
countenance. 

She found the courage to refiect; she never for a moment imag- 
ined the vulgarity of his fault; on the contrary, she sought 
among all the women in their own circle, those who had made 
themselves the subject of remarks by their coquetry; she sus- 
pected two or three elegant and well-bred ladies, whose beauty 
differed from Annie’s, who, by their intelligence, their wit and 
their charm, had been able to gain an ascendency over her son- 
in-law. But she would exhonerate them; many circumstances 
prevented its being this one or that one. 

“ Then it must be some one whom I do not know!” said Mme. 
Orliet to herself. This irritated her extremely; the effort that 
she had made to keep calm, her vain search for the accomplice, 
tired and worried her. 

Suddenly she heard a noise in the next room; she arose, not 
wishing to be surprised by a servant in the delinquent’s chamber, 
and on the threshold she found herself face to face with Lu- 
cien. 

^ Pale, thin, with feverish eyes, he trembled when he saw her 


WILD OATS. 


67 


Entering with his key, as usual, he had not been warned of his 
mother-in-law's arrival, and no one thought that he was in the 
house. 

He had predicted horrible things, but he had not expected this 
encounter and in this place. 

“Who is the wretched woman?” demanded Mme. Orliet, 
speaking with diflSculty because of a terrible dryness in her 
throat. 

“Who?” said Lucien, in a ringing voice. “Everybody, con- 
found it!” 

He returned to his studio, in a temper, and she followed him, 
closing the door which led into the sleeping-room. Without 
shame to herself she could not have accused him to his face of 
his fault, but had he not confessed it ? 

Of all days thi^ was the worst for an explanation. That same 
morning the woman with whom he had amused himself — or to 
speak more correctly, who had amused herself with him — for 
the last fortnight, had had a scene with him, and had given him 
his dismissal. He simply bored her. 

To lead the beautiful Romanet astray, had been an interesting 
episode; besides he was amiable enough to make the task agree- 
able. But to retain him, that was another affair. Everybody 
knew that he had no fortune, only an income from the two fam- 
ilies. It was hardly probable that the two families were going 
to supply him with money to spend outside of the conjugal 
roof; then Romanet was amusing to catch, but was not worth 
keeping; so she had shown him the door. 

Lucien was furious, but tried to take it haughtily; she had 
treated him as — as all women of that class treat men who be- 
long to them. He had amused himself with these eccentricities 
as long as they were in jest, but after awhile his pride revolted. 

What did she care for his pride ? As angry as he was he was 
obliged to go away in order not to strike a woman; a brutality 
which he had not yet brought himself to commit. 

He went away full of all the evil sentiment that could agitate 
the heart of a man who so shortly before was imbued with all 
the principles of honor. 

During his walk he thought of his wife; poor Annie! If he 
should write to her to return! He had not the least wish to go 
to Mantes; the thought that he would be questioned as to how 
he had spent his time, was absolutely odious to him, especially 
now. But to see Annie bring back to his deserted home, so cold 
and so inhospitable to-day, the grace and the charm which she 
had taken away with her 

For a moment he thought of entering a telegraph office and 
sending her the single word “ Come!” But an afterthought en- 
tered his mind and prevented him. 

He would be ridiculed! Romanet discarded by such a one, 
after a trial of ten or twelve days, had been compelled to return 
to the bosom of his family! That would make everybody laugh 
from the Madeleine to the Rue Drouot. Tney would say: “ Poor 
Romanet has had enough of it! Singed in his first adventure, 
he will never risk another!” 


m 


WILD OAT^. 


No, certainly, he would never submit to such humiliation. 
That same day he arranged to revenge himself upon that idiot of 
a woman who had just held him up to ridicule. In Paris it 
would not be difficult to find something better than he had left. 

He returned full of thoughts of vengeance, ready to quarrel 
with any one who would laugh at him, and before having had 
time to plunge his burning head into fresh water, he had met 
his mother-in-law upon the threshold of his room, the threshold 
that he had not crossed since Annie went away. 

Ah, well, if they were going to reprove him, to restrict him, 
to impose any laws upon him, they would find out to whom 
they were talking! Laws! He knew only one; that of his 
desires. 

After a silence of some seconds it was he who commenced a 
violent attack. 

What did they wish ? What did this surveilance over his ac- 
tions mean? Everybody else came and went, and nobody was 
uneasy about it. But he, when it happened that lie was only a 
quarter of an hour late for dinner, there were questions without 
end, and he was obliged to give explanations. There never was 
a married man so abominally henpecked! His life was a burden 
to him. Yes, it was true! had he not endured this long enough? 
And to-day the privacy of his own house had been treacherously 
invaded 

Here Mme. Orliet stopped him. 

“ I have not come here to treacherously impose upon you,” 
said she, in a beautifully clear and frank voice. “ My daughter, 
finding that her stay at my house would be prolonged, w’anted 
some things. She could have sent her maid for them; I thought 
it preferable that I should come myself. When servants talk 
among themselves, one can never tell just how far they may 
go ” 

Lucien blushed. He understood too well how his servants 
would judge his conduct. 

“ I could give you that reason, and it should satisfy you,” con- 
tinued Madame Orliet; “but I never resort to subterfuges. 1 
came here to find out your motive in sending away your wife 
and your child. I have no need of a prolonged investigation. 

I had scarcely entered when my first glance told me enough 

You have confessed more than I should have asked of you.” 

“ I have confessed nothing,” said Lucien coldly. 

Mme. Orliet silently thought a moment. The blow which 
struck her was so unexpected; the abyss in which Annie’s hap- 
piness was engulfed was so deep that she did not know what to 
do. 

“ Has my daughter given you any reason to be discontented ?” 
said she, seeking at least to continue this truly hopeless conver- 
sation. 

“ None,” replied Lucien, loyally. 

“ Then, why ? how ? Is it an attack of folly ? Explain your- 
self, at least!” cried the unhappy mother, losing her self-control 
before the enormity of his crime. 

_ “ Why? Because I am tired of being ridiculed; because I do 


WILD OATS, 


not know why I should be different from others; because men of 
my age are not generally imprisoned between their work and 
their family; because I am young and I wish to amuse myself, in- 
stead of always being a great baby who knows nothing of life.” 

“You should have thought of that before you were married,” 
said Mme. Orliet, controlling herself before the vehemence of 
her son in-law. 

“ It is possible; but if I had, you would have refused me your 
daughter.” 

“Selfish man!” said Annie’s mother calmly. “You did not 
wish to put yourself in the position to be refused by the young 
girl whom you loved, and to-day you are ready to break your 
wife’s heart.” 

“ I have not acted with any such premeditation,” exclaimed 
the young man. “ It is a crying injustice to accuse me of hav- 
ing concealed my intentions at the moment when I was preoc- 
cupied only with the thought of Annie!” 

When a misunderstanding arises between people who do not 
agree upon facts, there is no end to it. After a half an hour of 
this sort of conversation Lucien and his mother-in-law found 
themselves just where they had started. The cook knocked at 
the door — she had been listening — to announce that breakfast 
was ready. 

“We will go to breakfast together, however disagreeable it 
maybe to both of us,” said Mme. Orliet, simply. “It is nec- 
essary that your servants believe that we are on good terms. I 
only wish to give you this advice, try to preserve outwardly the 
show of a regular life. What I say to you is as much for your in- 
terest as for ours.” 

They scarcely touched the hastily prepared dishes, and, after 
as short a repast as possible, they arose at the same time. 

“ I am going to return to Mantes,” said Mme. Orliet. 

They were silent, their hearts filled with inexpressibly sad 
thoughts. 

“ If you wish it,” said she. “ Annie loves you so much — one 
word of regret on your part and she will forgiVe you.” 

Lucien’s pride was aroused at this remark. 

“ I do not wish forgiveness,” said he. “ I do not feel guilty 
of anything. I expect to live as I please, without being treated 
Hs if I were guilty. If Annie wishes, she has only to return here; 
but let it be understood that I shall have the right to act ab- 
solutely according to my fancy. Everybody lives thus, and all 
wives accept it.” 

“They are wrong,” said Mme. Orliet, gravely. “Then you 
forget that in most cases the women w’ho accept what you say 
can pretend to ignore it; in this case, it is different. My daugh; 
ter can only enter your house again when you return to your old 
life — my Annie, the child that I have brought up with so much 
care, shall not be exposed to insulting remarks and contemptuous 
looks — hers is a soiTOwthat one conceals — have you not thought 
of that?” 

“ Do as you please,” said Lucien. “ I wash my hands of it.” 

“ iiioDsieur,”said Mme. Orliet, putting on her cloak, 


7C 


WILD OATS, 


“ I am your servant, madame,” replied he. 

With perfect deference he conducted her to the door, and then 
returned to his studio. 

An hour before, he had returned home undecided, asking him- 
self if, notwithstanding his wounded vanity, it would not be bet- 
ter to return to his former honest and peaceful life. But, then, 
he would have returned to it without any quarrel, any publicity. 
He could have joined his wife and brought her back to Paris. 
His remorse — for he felt it, indeed, he felt it very much — would 
have been his own secret: no one could have reproached l)im. 

* His mother-in-law’s visit had changed the situation. He. was 
blamed, treated like a criminal, he would not submit to it! Be- 
sides, he was not yet weary of the life which he had only just 
tasted; his recent escapade only made him more desirous for new 
adventures. 

“It is my mother-in-law who has done it,” he said to himself, 
deceiving his conscience with a new sophism. “If it had not 
been for her, everything would have been arranged — and, upon 
my word, it would have been a pity. I think I See myself re- 
turning to the fold under this spiritual guidance!” 

He changed his clothes, slept three hours on the divan in his 
studio, where he now had the habit of taking a daily nap, and, 
at the usual hour, went to rejoin his new friends. 


CHAPTER XIH. 

When Mme. Orliet arrived home, Annie, who was very rest- 
less, was waiting for her in the drawing-room. 

“ Well, mamma!” said she, in a low tone. 

“ My daughter, you must be patient,” said her mother in an 
encouraging manner. 

This reply in itself justified all her fears. If she had brought 
good news she would not have answered thus. 

In the last three years the young wife had acquired much 
patience and resignation. The happiest marriages are little less 
than an apprenticeship to the domestic virtues, and in the last 
six months Annie had learned lesson upon lesson. 

After the servants had received their orders and gone away, 
she seated herself upon the little sofa, where, when she was a 
young girl, she had shared her confidences with her only friend. 

“ Tell me what is the matter, mamma ?” said she in a stifled 
voice. “ Do not try to conceal anything from me, for I have 
guessed it. He no longer loves me.” 

“ I am convinced that he hrs.not ceased to love you,” said her 
mother cautiously. “ But a spasm of folly has seized him: false 
friends, bad counsel — in fact, he amuses himself! What can you 
do? Men are like that; they fancy themselves inferior if they do 
not some times behave like brutes!” 

She regretted having shown so much bitterness. 

“You see, Annie,” she continued gently, “ I believe that men 
are like liquid metal in a tank; their youth must bubble up so 
that the scum may be skimmed off. They must get rid of their 
bad passions; none of them are superior to this, not even the 


WILD OAm 71 

best of them. Good men go through the furnace and come out 
purified; ordinary men remain there.” 

Annie buried her head on her mother’s bosom and wept. The 
cup of sadness seemed full to overflowing. 

“Oh, mamma!” said she, trying to restrain her tears, “ it is all 
over, I shall never see my poor happiness again!” 

“ Child,” said Mme. Orliet, “does one bid good-bye to hap- 
piness at your age ? It will take more than this to destroy the 
peace of your life! It is only a passing cloud; the sun will shine 
again!” 

But nothing could console the young wife. Her mother spoke 
to her in vain of the future of her child, who would sooner or 
later bring the father back; of all Lucien’s good qualities, w^Pich 
would return in all their pristine glory after this cloud had 
passed. Annie listened to it all resignedly, but she did not cease 
to weep. 

She sobbed in her sleep that night, like a sorrowful child, and 
her mother, who went on tiptoe to listen whether she slept, shed 
more than one tear over the happy days when Annie had no sor- 
row that she did not forget in sleep. 

The next morning, at a reasonable hour, Mme. Roma net 
came to hear jiews of her son. Mme. Orliet did not wish to tell 
her the truth, which she concealed behind a barrier of pre- 
texts: naturally he was idle at this season of the year; there was 
a good deal going on in Paris just now, which interrupted 
Lucien’s work; and that his wife might not see how lazy he was, 
he begge<l her to stay awhile longer at Mantes. Mme. Roma- 
net understood nothing of all this, but she was not aware of it, 
and was quite satisfied until she arrived home; she had not seen 
the condition of her daughter-in-law’s eyes because she had kept 
them in the shade. 

But when her husband tried to make her repeat what Mme. 
Orliet had said, the excellent woman discovered that she had 
been deluged with a fine dose of holy water, or rather she 
discovered nothing herself; it was her husband who enlightened 
her. 

“ Madame Orliet has been laughing at you, my good wife,” he 
said to her. “ Something is the matter, ana I am going to find 
it out.” 

He took his hat and his cane, and, with his usual dignity, he 
crossed the town, bowing right and left like a condescending 
sovereign. 

Mme. Orliet expected him, but not so soon. She received him 
with her usual grace; if, therefore, the conference should lead 
to a collision, he could not claim that she was disposed to be at 
all unpleasant. 

“ What has happened now?” said he, seating himself. “ My 
w ife has told me a lot of nonsense that I do not understand, so 
1 have come to see for myself.” 

His manner of saying “myself” showed all the importance 
tliat he placed upon this measure. Mme. Orliet smiled at him 
pleasantly. 

, “ You did well, she said. “In fact, something has happened, 


WILD OAT^. 


7 ^ 

which 1 regrot extremely; and as it is neitlier your fault nor 
mine, we must try to make the best of a disagreeable situation.” 

“ I see what it is.” said Master Romanet, putting his index 
finger on his nose. “ The rascal is in debt.” 

“ He will be, without doubt,” replied his friend, promptly, 
seizing this unhoped-for occasion to plead the cause of her son- 
in-law. “He will do it all the more, because he has consid- 
erable pride, and he will borrow from his friends before he will 
go to you for money ” 

“ Whatl” cried Master Romanet, losing his coolness, “ he will 
do chat? You speak of it calmly, as if it were the slightest 
possible misfortune that could happen.” 

The expression on his friend^s face was not reassuring, and the 
notary stopped short. His own calm face changed, became sud- 
denly pale, and in a suppressed voice, very different from his 
ordinary tone, he said, almost hesitatingly: 

“Nothing dishonorable, I hope?” 

“No,” said Mme. Orliet, quickly; “nothing against her 
honor, thank God!” 

They remained opposite each other, silent, not daring to look 
up. Master Romanet was another man since he came in. Sud- 
denly he had become old, wrinkled, bowed down; he tried to 
brace himself up to bear the blow which he had just received. 

“What has happened, then?” he said, after a moment’s pause. 
“ You can tell me now; I am prepared.” 

“ It is what the w^orld considers a very slight thing, but what 
you and I think very serious. Lucien has made some bad ac- 
quaintances.” 

“ Women!” cried the notary, in a voice of thunder. “Ah, the 
wretch! Women! You are right, my dear friend; everything 
will go, money and everything! Women!” 

He let his hands, which he had raised to heaven, fall upon his 
knees, and remained as if thunder-struck. 

“ What can you do?” replied Mme. Orliet, in a gentle voice; 
“it is a sad thing.” 

“ Do you believe that it will pass over?” interrupted Master 
Romanet, in a sorrowful voice. 

“I hope so,” said his friend, in a firm tone, though her eyes 
were filled with tears. 

Lucien’s father suddenly l^came very angry. The first shock 
had stunned him, but the discussion had restored him to him- 
self. 

During half an hour he walked up and down the room, scold- 
ing, crying, filling the room with his loud, vibrating voice. 

Annie, on the next floor, curled up on a sofa with her child 
asleep upon her lap, listened to these bursts of paternal fury, 
and trembled like a bird which hears the firing of guns in the 
fields. 

Certainly Lucien was very guilty, but Master Romanet’s anger 
was terrible. What could the unhappy boy have done to pro- 
voke such a tempest of wrath? 

To wound the heart of the woman who loved him, whom he 
had chosen himself, married almost against the wishes of hi 


WILD OATS. 


73 


parents, that was very cruel. Why should that excite such 
wrath in his father, or such contempt in her mother? 

While this loud voice was heard under her feet, Annie shiv- 
ered, thinking how her mother must have looked at Lucien, and 
she said to herself that between the notary and the cold disdain 
of her own mother, she would have preferred to submit to the 
anger which speaks out and then passes off. 

Mme. Orliet wisely refrained from stopping the torrent of re- 

E roaches which Master Romanet addressed to his son. In her 
eart she felt a great satisfaction in hearirig another say what 
she thought herself, though the father placed the worst possible 
construction upon Lucien’s faults. 

“ Ah, w^ell,” said Master Romanet, suddenly stopping himself 
short, “ one might almost say that you do not care about it ! 
Yet it seems to me that it concerns you as much as me. And 
Annie, what does she say ?” 

“Annie is very much grieved, but she is good and cou- 
rageous,” replied Mme. Orliet. “ She knows that neither you 
nor I will leave anything undone where her happiness is con- 
cerned; and there, where her pride will forbid her to act, we 
shall fight for her.” 

“ You have said it,” cried the notary, seizing his friend’s 
hands. “ What did you say to him — that big booby?” 

“Not much. I think just now it is useless to say anything.” 
“How useless? Must we allow him to compromise himself 
with one knows not whom; to squander our fortunes and make 
his wife unhappy?” 

“Listen to me, my friend,” said Mme. Orliet, with great 
calmness. “ Lucien must return to his duty, and see the extent 
of his fault, but I believe it is also necessary to allow him a little 
liberty until he wearies of the foolish life tliat he is leading. 
That will not take long.” 

“ Ta, ta, ta!”. said the notary. “Songs! You cannot allow 
horses the bit, and you cannot let young men commit follies. 
See how I brought him up. He was well raised.” 

“Much too well,” interrupted Mme. Orliet. “Yes, very 
much too well! You need not look at me in that indignant 
manner. I have reflected much since yesterday.” 

“ And what have you thought?” said the notary, in a tone of 
raillery. 

“lam only confirmed in what I have thought for some time. 
There is a proverb, ‘ Youth must have its day.’ This proverb is 
not so foolish, my friend. Now that this misfortune has come, 
it is too late to look back and to regret what was, or what was 
not, but if Lucien had frequented the same society that he fre- 
quents to-day, perhaps what afiSicts us now would never have 
occurred.” 

“But you would not have given him your daughter?” cried 
Master Romanet. 

“ I should have been wrong,” replied his beautiful friend, 
firmly. “ The English call this sort of life sowing ivitd oats. 
Whatever name you may give to that phase of life, it neverthe- 
less seems necessary that a young man should pass through jt.” 


74 


WILD OATS, 


“ And leave there the best part of himself, his health, his 
fortune, his heart and his honor ?” said Master Romanet, in a 
trembling voice. 

“ If all that comprises man’s worth should be tarnished in the 
trial,” replied she, “it would still be better that the unhappy 
man should ruin only his own future, than to ruin that of the 
wife who loves him!” 

Mme. Orliet turned her head; she could not speak. Master 
Romanet pressed her bands in silence, and they both wept over 
Annie’s fate, without a single, selfish though! . 

“ Now what are you going to do?” asked the father, after he 
had regained his composure. 

“ Wait! Weeks if necessary, some days, at least, in any case; 
we shall see by and by. If you knew how much faith I have in 
the unforeseen — that which we do not expect, and which hap- 
hens unexpectedly.” 

Master Romanet did not share this faith. If his friend would 
have allowed him, he would have immediately cut off the means 
of support of the prodigal son. The notary averred that vicious 
horses should be conquered by hunger, and that this means 
should be adopted with Lucien. Mme. Orliet insisted that the 
question of money should not be mixed up in what she wisely 
considered an infinitely higher morality. 

After Master Romanet went away, Annie came down into the 
drawing-room. 

Her eyes were red from weeping, and she was feverish. 

“ His father is very angry, is he not ?” she asked. 

“ Naturally,” said her mother. 

If Annie had been going to plead Lucien’s cause, it would 
have been less difficult to lilame him, after she had tried to de- 
fend him against the notary. 

“You, too — I think, mamma, that perhaps if we should send 
him the little one, it might do some good, for though he no 
longer loves me he cannot help loving his child!” 

Tears broke her words, and her mother took her in her arms. 

“ The child is too young,” said she, covering her with caresses, 
“ and Lucien would not understand that delicate thought. But 
he loves you still, I assure you, and you will see him return to 
you— he loves only you. and that keeps him away, who has 
nothing whatever to do with love.” 

Annie sadly shook her head. 

“ Can a man love his wife, love her truly, and go away with 
another?” asked she with sad irony. 

^ “ Yes,” said Mme. Orliet sincerely, from her own experience 
in life. 

“ Then,” replied the young wife, “ there must be several kinds 
of love, for ” 

She could not finish her thought, but her face, covered with a 
sudden blush, spoke for her. 

Without any plans having been formed, Annie made her 
home at Mantes, as when she was a voung girl. 

This caused some gossip in the village; but, thanks to the ad- 
vice of her mother, young Mme. Romanet, showed so calm a 


WILD OATS, 


75 


face, so much dignity when she spoke of her husband, that the 
m^t persistent curiosity^ could not discover anything. “ Some- 
thing has happened,” said the gossips. But what ? They were 
baffled for at feast three weeks. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

Lucien was free. 

He was in the situation of a man who, after expecting for 
several days, that the heavens would fall and crush him, ac- 
knowledges with as much surprise as pleasure, that though the 
heavens did fall upon him, there was no great harm done after 
all. 

Liberty! No more letters to receive, no more telegrams to 
send in reply; and above all, nothing to fear! He made as much 
as possible of this advantage, in order not to hear the plaintive 
voice, which cried to him pitilessly, and which repeated Annie’s 
name to him incessantly. 

Lucien was so happy to be free, that he went off to join a 
party of friends, that he was sure to meet at this hour, in order 
to dine in jolly company. 

Jolly company is not difficult to find in Paris; really gay peo- 
ple are much more rare; but it was not true gayety that Lucien 
sought; he wished for noise and life, and be found what he 
sought. 

For three or four days he went about to places of amuse- 
ment, never alone, wishing openly to show the life that he was 
now leading. But he could not long endure the same society; 
as soon as he was accustomed to some face his unpleasant 
thoughts returned to him. His companions, themselves, were 
surprised at this versatility, and jested with him about it. 

“ Romanet does not do things by halves,” they said. “When 
he was a prey to the most patriarchal virtues, he only lived for 
them, and now he only exists for the other kind.” 

The truth was that he was tired, irritated, disgusted; that he 
had a horror of himself, and that he dared not remain alone for 
fear that he should weep. 

After a few days, he would have committed a crime, rather 
than not seek some change in his life. 

Should he return to his family? Certainly not! They would 
surely ridicule him for that! His unhealthy state made him 
more susceptible than ever to this fear of ridicule, which had 
driven him to commit so many follies. 

Yet he had conceived such a horror for the places where he 
had spent the most of his time in this new period of his existence, 
that, knowing no other refuge, he returned home. 

He arose one morning, cross and unhappy; his bedroom, with 
its blue hangings, seemed icy and inhospitable to him. The 
studio was dark and melancholy. For a long time no light 
hand had removed the dust from the bronzes and knick-knacks. 
Even the window panes were dusty inside and out for want of 
care. The brilliancy of the canvases was lost in the shadows, 


76 


WILD OATS. 


and everything was gray and tarnished, as if these objects, too, 
were ill at ease, and only begged to be left alone. 

A number of newspapers, still in their wrapjx;rs, of opened 
letters, perused and thrown aside, awaited him. He took up one 
of them: it was an invitation to a wedding. A glazed card fell 
out into his hands— a ball given by one of his friends. Large 
sheets of paper, surrounded by black borders, spoke of recent 
mourning. Life had gone on for everybody, while for him it 
seemed to have stopi^ed, he knew not why, he knew not when! 

Now and then, when they first came, he had opened and read 
these papers, messengers from social life, and he had thrown 
them down carelessly; what did not concern him had no further 
interest for him. Yet all these evidences of friendship and 
politeness could not remain unanswered. Formerly Annie had 
done this; she had taken upon herself all these little duties, 
w’hieh were more or less irksome, in order that her husband 
should be complete master of his time. 

“These must be answered,” said he. 

He seated himself at his desk, before his heap of letters and 
notes, and took up one at random. It was an invitation to a 
wedding, accompanied by a second card, bearing these words: 
“ M. and Mme. X. will receive at their house after the 
ceremony.” 

It was now only two or three days before the date mentioned 
in the invitation. 

Lucien opened a drawer in his desk to take out some cards. 

He hesitated a moment: he did not know where to put his 
hand among the little packages enveloped in their tissue papers. 
He seized one and drew out two cards; putting them in an 
envelope without looking at them, he wrote the address, sealed 
the envelope, and then remained undecided. 

“I ought to go there myself,” he said; “the invitation re- 
quires a card with the comer turned. And if they should re- 
ceive me they will ask for my wife!” 

The package remained on the table, and he read on the first 
card between the two little elastics: Monsieur et Madame Lucien 
Eomanet. 

Those five words seemed to stare at him with a sorrowful and 
wicked air; the impression was so painful that he threw a folded 
paper over them to prevent his seeing them any more, but he 
saw them all the same, and they entered more and more deeply 
into his weary brain. 

M. and Mme. Lucien Romanet. He was going to send these 
lying cards to that address: he was going to make lying visits, 
and to leave at the houses of those who do not receive, this little 
bristol card which said that he had come with his wife. 

Lucien did not like to lie; that was one of his good traits, and 
he had already been drawn in that direction as far as his good 
sense allowed him. He would grow accustomed to it perhaps, 
as he wmuld become accustomed to other things. 

With a restless hand he began to get rid of his heap of cor- 
respondence. In an hour a little pile of envelopes, of all sizes, 


WILD OATS. 77 

was lying before him; then he arose and rung for breakfast. His 
letters were answered and he was relieved. 

The breakfast was bad. During her holiday the cook’s hand 
had lost its skill; but even if she had served Romanet the finest 
repast, it would have been tasteless to him in that large 
dusty room, where the chairs, as they stood stiffly against the 
walls, seemed to him like ugly phantoms. All the furniture 
seemed to have eyes and to glare at him reproachfully. 

He finished quickly, threw down his napkin, returned to his 
studies, and determined to work all the afternoon. The day was 
unfavorable, the yellow light which shone through the clouds 
gave neither shadows nor reflections. Yet he was so determined 
not to lose the day, that he took a new canvas and commenced 
to fill in a background rather than be idle. 

While painting he thought of society, and the new place that 
he had made for himself there. Annie could not remain eter- 
nally at her mother’s; the time would come when they would 
l)e obliged to show themselves together in society. 

It would be extremely disagreeable, but it could not be 
avoided. 

How would poor Annie appear ? 

But to think of Annie w^as above Lucien’s stren^h. He tried 
two or three times and then gave it up. The physical suffering 
that it caused him was agonizing. 

Anything, no matter how disagreeable, was preferable to that. 

These unpleasant thoughts would not leave him. For the last 
few days the question of money had troubled him. That morn- 
ing, even, he had given the cook his last louis to purchase the 
breakfast. 

Lucien had never come to his last louis before, the last that 
one searches his pocket for and is so happy to find there. For 
a long time he had forgotten the particular physiognomy of this 
little piece of gold that he had looked at once with special at- 
tention. 

When he was young, his father had provided as generously for 
his wants as for his pleasures, and Lucien had never known what 
it was to be short of money. Now he knew what it was to be 
embarrassed. 

The word “ embarrassed ” was strange under the high ceil- 
ing and between the tapestried walls of that elegant little house, 
and yet he was embarrassed; money would come from Mantes, 
as it had always come. For two days Lucien had sometimes 
asked himself what he should do, if they did not send him 
money. 

This was the thought that drove him to work that day; if they 
cut off his means of living he could paint; he would sell his pict- 
ures. He would hasten to finish two small canvases that had 
been ordered, and he would live from the products of his brush. 
That would be honorable. 

This thought aroused him, and he hunted in a corner for a can- 
vas that he wished to finish. i ^ 

It was a copy of the “Romanet Orchard.” He looked at it a 
long time, trying to see it only with an artist’s eye, trying to for- 


WILD OArS>, 


7S 

get the day when he had made his first study. Under the apple 
trees he liad sketched a clear and elegant face, that of Annie, 
just as he had seen it down there. Suddenly overcome by some 
strange feeling, he knew not what, he dipped a brush in the 
green on his palette’and painted out the sweet image; after which 
it seemed to him that he had just committed a murder, and he 
fell into a chair, overcome, frightened, before the canvas, where 
the new fresh color made a shining spot under which he saw the 
pro^e of the face. , 

The bell rung. The valet went to open the door. A voice re- 
sounded in the vestibule and the studio door opened, while the 
servant announced: 

“ Monsieur Romanet.” 

Lucien arose quickly and remained standing before his father. 

The latter closed the door carefully, drew the Oriental por- 
tieres, then he walked toward Lucien and folded his arms. 

“ Ijet me see the life that you lead !” said he. 

During the last minutes Lucien had ten times wished to 
throw himself upon his father’s neck and say to him; “ Take me 
back, down there!” This being ill suited to the circumstances, 
threw him into that state of obstinacy in which he did not 
know whether he wanted to do so or not, but where he would 
die before he would yield. 

“Your wife is ill,” continued Master Romanet, in the pom- 
pous and dictatorial tone which he thought was dignified. 
“She is ill with grief, the poor child; but she will recover. I 
can tell you, we will look out for that. It would be fine, in- 
deed, that an angel like her should suffer for a scapegrace such 
as you!” 

Then he began a homily in which he reproached his son for 
every fault that he had ever committed, from his cradle to the 
present time, putting in the same category even the pri^s that 
he had failed to obtain at the lyceum, then with his present 
sin; in a word, with the best intentions in the world, in a dis- 
course which he had been preparing for a week, he commenced, 
but his real emotion which he tried to conceal under a manner 
even more pedagogic than usual, made him forget the end, the 
middle and the loginning. 

His son listened to him, apparently impassible, but really 
very much affected. He did not hear what Master Romanet 
said; the sound of his voice fell on his ears, but did not reach 
his heart. 

It was the voice which had scolded him when he was young, 
and of which he was so afraid that he did not know where to 
go to avoid hearing it. It brought back to him many past 
scoldings, not always deserved, and a regime of severity that 
had made him the model young man who had l^een buried 
three weeks ago under the artificial flowers of fast life. 

“If I had been brought up differently,” said Lucien to him- 
self, while Master Romanet was speaking, “ I should not have 
been where I am to-day. My father has no right to talk to 
me like this. It is about time for me to talk of morality!” 

Yet his conscience, with which he had struggled for a long 


WILD OATS, 7d 

time, would perliaps have agreed with the orator, if an unfortu- 
nate word of the latter had not broken that influence. 

“Do you imagine,” said Master Romanet, suddenly, that 
we are going to supply you with money for such purposes as 
this ?” 

“Oh, father,” said Lucien, wounded to the quick, “do not 
speak of money! Keep your money! I will live from my 
work!” 

“Your work!” cried the notary; “the work of M. Lucien 
Romanet, artist, painter! If you had only been like anybody 
else, and had a profession ! But no, you wished to be a painter; 
what does it bring you in, year in and year out, this painting?” 

“It will bring me enough to live upon!” said Lucien, haugh- 
tily. “ From to day you are released from all obligations to me, 
father.” 

“ ‘ Obligations!’ I do not think that I owe anything to a gen- 
tleman who leads an unworthy life; and I assure you, that the 
income given you when you married was in the intention that 
you should live decently with your family, and not that you 
should squander my parents’ money and mine to pay for dis- 
honest pleasures.” 

Lucien possessed a quality very rare among those who have 
not had to earn their living: he w’as very sensitive upon the sub- 
ject of money. He thought it was natural for his parents to 
supply his wants; but, in a moment of emban*assment, he would 
never have gone to them for a loan. This delicacy, good or bad, 
had made him careful and wise in his younger days. 

The manner in which his father had just expressed himself 
wounded him deeply, and his words relating to his art had 
stung him. From that moment, all chances of a reconciliation, 
possible a minute before, were lost. 

Some words still passed between Master Ronianet, who was 
more and more irritated, and his son, who intrenched himself 
more and more behind his haughty disdain, which served to 
conceal his terrible agitation; then, seeing the uselessness of his 
efforts, the notary went away, conducted to the door by Lucien, 
who had not ceased to show him the most irreproachable 
deference. 

When he was alone in the street. Master Romanet wished to 
return, to embrace his son, and say to him: “ All this is nothing 
at all; come with me; let us go to Annie!” 

If he had done so, Lucien would have found himself defense- 
less, and his assumed coldness would have melted like snow 
before the sun. But to return — it would be necessary to ring 
the bell, to wait for a servant to come to open the door. Master 
Romanet was the proudest being upon earth, and possessed a 
go^ share of vanity as well. He went to the Exchange, where 
he had to see some clients, and Annie’s fate was no longer in 
his mind. 

The sight of the studio now became still more painful to 
Lucien; his interview with his mother-in-law, and that that he 
had just had with his father, had not left a single object about 
him that he could look at without sad or unpleasant feelings. 


80 


WILD OAT^. 


“ I can never work here any more,” said the young man; 
“whatever I may do, these walls will always speak to me of 
what has passed I Besides, since they have taken away my in- 
come, I must find a less sumptuous home, and I must also try 
to sell some pictures. Until now, I have lived too much like an 
amateur. But how am I going to live while I wait ?” 

Annie’s husband had very little experience in worldly friend- 
ships, yet in a month, he had learned many sides of that singu- 
lar life where people easily become intimate without caring for 
each other, who would help others to spend their money, and 
ridicule them if they are at all economical, and would not give 
them a farthing to save them from ruin. 

None of those whom he called his friends would loan him 
more than five louis, and only that on the expre^ed or under- 
stood condition that the money would be returned in a few days: 
and Lucien could make no such promise. The man upon whom 
he could depend was Jalbrun, and he decided to go and see 
him. 

This decision cost him a good deal. Since the ball he had met 
his friend every day, and every daj^ he tacitly undemtood that 
his friend disai)proved of his conduct. The suspicion was only 
felt by Lucien; it was a finely disguised irony, but no one could 
doubt it, and the bitter point of the sarcasm wounded the young 
man. 

Nevertheless, he saw no other remedy for the state of things 
that he had created for himself, and he went to find his friend, 
who was more easily found anywhere than in his own home. 

He had not gone a hundred steps in the direction of the Made- 
leine when he saw a young woman approach whose figure struck 
him; he could not remember where he had seen this irregular face, 
which possessed a certain charm. This person looked at him 
attentively; she knew him, he could not doubt that, and in- 
stinctively he slackened his steps. 

“Do you not remember me. Monsieur Romanet!” said she, 
stopping; “ and yet we have talked together, we have even 
danced together.” 

Like a flash of lighting Lucien saw again the masked ball, 
with the electric light, the mingling of colors and the odd 
figures. 

“ You danced the first waltz with me” said she with a slightly 
malicious smile. 

He recalled it then I In fact, he had found her very amusing, 
and felt a certain charm which she disseminated around bor. 

“ And then, no one has seen you since,” said she with a smile 
that perhaps was a little facetious. “ I did not know what had 
become of you, but I have heard since.” 

Indeed, Lucien had not met her anywhere in the whirl of that 
variegated society, where he had ranged since the memorable 
ball. 

“Then you have thought of me?” said he, flattered, and also 
somewhat curiously. 

“ Oh, I go out very little; it was only by chance that 1 was at 


WILD OATS. 


81 


Courtois’ studio; a friend of mine took me there. I like a quiet 
life.” 

She looked down the long avenue, where the fresh young 
leaves on the trees formed a sort of green curtain that was very 
pleasing to the eye. 

Lucien felt a strong emotion. This woman who had just re- 
called the past memories of his troubled life and who spoke to 
him of a quiet life, under these trees, seemed to him so different 
from those whom he had met in the interval I Looking at her he 
thought her almost pretty. She looked at him and smiled pleas- 
anty. 

“ It gives me a great deal of plsasure to meet you again,” she 
said, with the gesture of a woman who is going away; you 
seem a little sad, a little tired, I am sorry for that — because you 
gave me the impression of a man who was very gay, very jolly — 
perhaps I am wrong. I beg pardon. Adieu, monsieur.” 

Lucien made a gesture. She stopped. “ I should like to go to 
see you,” said he. “ Will you give me your address?” 

“ Pauline Morin,” said she; “I live very near— you can see 
the house; the one with a. studio on top.” 

They were before her door. She made him a little bow and 
disappeared in the vestibule. 

It is very curious,” thought Lucien, “ that I should have met 
her here for the first time in a month, when she lives so near !” 

Then, as if he had awakened from a dream, he hurried to the 
place where he hoped to meet Jalbrun. 

Everybody has personally proved the truth of this saying: 
“When you are in a hurry you never find what you seek.” 
Lucien verified this once more in his own case. For two hours, 
Jalbrun slipped through his fingers like an eel. Whenever the 
young man thought he was going to put his hand upon him, he 
learned that his friend had just gone. At last, about seven 
o’clock, weary in body and mind, giving up the meeting for 
that day and getting ready to go home to take whatever his cross 
cook, who did not expect him, would give him for a late dinner, 
Romanet found himself under his friend’s nose. 

“ Well, this is fortunate,” said he, taking his arm. “ Have you 
any money about you ?” 

“Always!” responded Jalbrun. “Society will doubt that! 
Chut! It is a mystery. I have the appearance of organized dis- 
order, and I am order personified. I am that! I like to deceive 
the world, thus I revenge myself for these fools’ mistakes. If I 
should tell you that I have some savings?” 

“ You have saved something? This is delightful,” said Lucien, 
drawing a deep sigh, “ take me to dinner somewhere, and we 
will talk afterward^. Take me to a quiet place, if there is such a 
one.” 

“ I can meet your views exactly,” replied Jalbrun gravely. 

A few minutes later, they were seated in an obscure restau- 
rant, in a nearly deserted street, where they could talk without 
being deafened by the noise of carriages or the buzzing of neigh- 
boring conversation. 

They did not take advantage of this quiet, for during the din- 


82 


WILD OATS, 


ner they talked about ordinary things. Lucien felt calmer under 
the influence of his friend’s serenity; without a shadow of confi- 
dence ever having been exchanged between them, he knew that 
Jalbrun understood the state of his mind, and that he was dis- 
posed to aid him. 

“Come, let us take a walk on the quays, will you?” said the 
musician, when they arose from the table. “I do not know 
any place in Paris that is so peaceful and quiet as the quay 
which runs along the Tuileries garden. You might compose a 
poem of twenty-four verses there, without anybody even ask- 
ing you what time it is.” 

They went there slowly, and before ten minutes Lucien had 
opened his heart to his only friend. 

He concealed nothing from him — neither the sickness of heart 
that his new sort of life caused him, nor his mother-in-law’s 
visit, nor that of his father, nor the material consequences which 
his rupture with him had caused, nor the extreme embarrass- 
ment in which he had found himself, and which might last for 
years perhaps. In general, Lucien did not like confidences, 
but he still more dishked half confidences which would not 
truly relieve a troubled soul, and which would not allow one to 
ask or to receive really useful advice. 

Jalbrun listened to him seriously, sometimes encouraging him 
with a word, putting a direct question in difficult places, to 
smooth things and make them easy. 

“Well,” said Romanet, when he had finished, “do you think 
that I am very badly off ? You will tell me that I have had 
what I wished. I will reply that I know that very well. If I 
had it to do over again, I would do the same thing — nothing 
else. But what do you think of my situation ?*’ 

“ Evidently it is not brilliant,” replied Jalbrun, throwing away 
his cigar. 

They leaned their elbows on the parapet, and looked into the 
Seine which flowed beneath them. 

Nothing is more charming than this corner of Paris at that 
hour of the evening, when a vague blue-green light is seen above 
the Trocadero. The mysterious shadows thrown against the 
sky, and the trees of the Champs Elysees, form a confused mass, 
now and then broken by the lights around the cafes-chantants. 
The building of the corps legislatif is half concealed by the tall 
poplars on the left bank. Looking up the river, the continua- 
tion of the lights is seen, united by the bridges, like a rivulet of 
diamonds. 

Solitary lamps shine from the houses; light is everywhere, 
but the greatest brilliancy is in the darkening heavens; the river 
flows with a murmuring noise, reflecting all the lights and all 
the rosy shadows’ dance. 

“To think that there are hundreds of people in Paris who 
have never seen this place, or, if they have seen it, have never 
appreciated it.” 

Lucien did not reply. 

The tall black poplars opposite him recalled the Isle of 
Mantes. Suddenly he thought tuis water would flow on past An- 


WILD OATS, 83 

nie’f? window, and he was overcome with grief which enveloped 
him like a cloak. 

“ No,” said he after a moment. “ I regret nothing. I wished 
to see life, I lived in a kind of dream, I have come back to the 
land of the living. The experience cost me dear, it was severe — 
but now I feel myself a man, lam no longer the great child that 
I was.” 

The thing now is,” said Jalbrun calmly, “ to know what 
you are going to do.” 

“To work for my living,” said Lucien, as he had said it before 
his father. 

“I understand, a beautiful theory, perfect; but it is not so at all 
in practice. Your rupture with your family has been noised 
abroad. I will not conceal from you that people think that you 
are not in the right, and your friends will be cool toward you. 
You will have no great chance, even if you work hard, of selling 
your pictures to them. There are the picture dealers, — but when 
they know that you have to work for your living, they will not 
pay you very much. However, that will take care of itself, but 
you must give up your fast life.” 

“ Do you fancy that that amuses me ?” asked Lucien abruptly. 

He stopped short, for fear of saying too much. Jalbrun put 
his hand on his arm. 

“ Do you want me to go for your wife to-morrow morning ?” 
said he. “ I am sure that she will return to you without saying 
a word.” 

“ It was possible this morning,” said Lucien in a low tone, “ it 
is impossible now. Since my father has stopped my income. I 
can no longer be reconciled to my family; people would accuse 
me of doing so from self-interest.” 

Lucien’s pride was not to be overcome, and besides, Jalbrun 
did not insist; had he been in the young man’s place he would 
have done the same. 

“ Then,” said he, conclusively, “ there is only one thing to do; 
live very humbly and work very hard. That is not lively, but 
it is honorable. I have a little money at your disposal; be 
economical, and we will do the best we can.” 

Lucien silently pressed his friend’s hand, and they returned 
toward brilliant Paris, chatting about art, as if serious personal 
questions had never been discussed between them. 

The next day, the young man arose saying to himself that he 
must at once leave the home that events had made so odious to 
him. After having selected some furniture, and other things 
that belonged exclusively to him, he wenti out to look for a 
studio. 

As he walked along, looking at the notices on different doors, 
he saw one which bore in large letters the word, “ Studio.” The 
vestibule looked respectable, and he entered. 

The studio answered his purposes. The walls were bare, the 
ceiling very low; everything was shabby compared with his 
beautiful studio which Mme. Orliet had arranged with s6 
much care and taste. But Lucien had decided to bear his mis- 
fortunes courageously;, and nothing gives one so much courage 


84 


WILD OATS, 


as the resolution to have it. A small, cold, and badly arranged 
room at the end of the studio was called a sleeping-room. 
“ Never mind,” thought he, “a bed could be placed there, with 
a toilet table, and that will be enough.” Romanet paid security 
to the concierge, said that he would send around his furniture 
during the day, promised to pay six months’ rent in advance, and 
went away with a degree of satisfaction; but he was very sad. 

When the time came to take away his belongings from what 
had been his former happy home, the young man’s heart failed 
him. Standing in the middle of the studio, he looked around 
upon the objects which the night before had brought him only 
painful memories, but which now recalled a thousand tender 
and charming recollections of his recent past. 

Was it really possible ? Had he broken every tie that attached 
him to his family? Though his exile was voluntary, was he 
condemned to live alone forever, haunted by the thought that 
others suffered on account of him ? 

But he did not wish to think of that. He suffered intensely. 
It was better to try not to think. And yet the affection of those 
h^py days had been so sweet to him! 

When Annie’s light step came and went in the house, when 
she appeared, from time to time, from under the folds of the 
curtains, when the little child, lying on the divan, prattled to 
herself, played with her little fingers, laughing at theu* motions, 
all this family joy, that exchange of tender looks, that constant 
sharing of little cares and little pleasures, all these lost joys had 
an unspeakable charm, like a very light and subtile perfume, 
which clings to the hair, to the clothes, which one feels, but 
cannot and does not wish to destroy. 

He had wished it! He had broken the charm, he had thrown 
away the perfume, and now that he was free and alone he felt a 
great bitterness ingulf him, as the ocean ingulfs a ship by a slow 
but sure movement. 

Take away these things! Impossible, he would send Jalbrun. 
He went away without saying anything to the servants, who 
knew that their master was going to leave the house. ‘ To go,” 
said the cook, disdainfully, “into a mean little studio^ very high 
up, at number forty, and in a house that appears to be very 
badly kept.” 

It was dark when Jalbrun arrived, with two porters laden 
with packages and canvases. An iron bedstead, bought near 
by, had already been placed in the ugly little sleeping^room. 
One could hear the easels striking against the banisters of the 
staircase; and the slow and heavy steps of the porters as they 
mounted, descended and mounted again, without haste, like the 
movements of a machine. 

At last the noise and bustle ceased. Jalbrun went away to 
keep an appointment that he had with a friend the next hour, 
and Lucien was left alone, poor and heart-broken in his new 
home. 

As he went down-stairs a few moments later to go to dinner, 
and while passing through the vestibule, he met the woman who 
had spoken to him the night before. 


WILD OATS. eS 

“ Did you come to my house?” said she, surprised on seeing 
him. 

“ No; do you live here?” 

“ I told you so yesterday.” 

“T forgot it,” said Lucien, with a slight effort. *‘1 have 
rented the studio above.” 

“ Ahl” said Pauline, looking at him attentively. “Then you 
have left your hotel ?” 

“Yes.” 

There was silence. Lucien was thinking of the home that he 
had just left, and was comparing it to the one he had just come to. 

“ Well, good-bye,” said Pauline. “You are going out and I 
am going to dinner. We shall see each other then, since we are 
such near neighbors.” 

“Do you dine at home?” said Lucien, absently. 

“ As much as possible. I have a horror of restaurants. Good- 
bye.” 

“ Good-bye,” repeated the young man, mechanically. 

He joined Jalbruu, who took him to the Opera Comique, and 
passed the evening like a man who has no cares. But when he 
found himself alone before the door of his new house, when he 
mounted the dark, unfamiliar staircase, where he stumbled 
against the steps, when he reached his cold and inhospitable 
room, he had great need of all the courage with which he had 
promised to provide himself. 


CHAPTER XV. 

The following daj^, at eleven o’clock in the morning, Lucien 
was painting alone in his room when there came a knock at the 
door. He opened it and found there Pauline Morin. 

“You do not come to me, neighbor, so I come to you,” she 
said, artlessly, and coming in as if she were at home. 

Lucien answered two or three words out of politeness, and 
continued his work. He liked to work so much that anything 
which took his attention from it was disagreeable to him. But 
Pauline knew these moods and she was not offended. 

“ What you are doing is very good,” said she. 

“ Do you like it ?” said Lucien. 

One is always flattered at being praised, no matter whence the 
praise comes. 

“ It is very good. Will you have a good place at the Salon ?” 

“I hope that it will be good; I do not know anything about 
it,” said the young man, painting rapidly. 

Pauline looked around her. 

““ You cannot say that it is very elegant here at your house,” 
said she, smiling, “ but it is funny, it is not at all like other peo- 
ple’s houses. 

Lucien smiled; this woman had taste, that was evident. 

“ Tell me, now, neighbor,” said she, with a shade of timidity, 
“if I can do anything for you. You need not hesitate; it will 
be a pleasure to me. As I live in the same house, you know, it 
will be very easy.” 


86 


WILT) 0A18. 


“ Thank you!” said Lucien, graciously. 

This frank woman, who had not a wicked air, pleased him 
very much. She was very different from the others. 

“ Well, then, it is agreed; you only have to ring at my door. 
I am going to breakfast now.” 

“ It is true, it is half-past eleven,” said Lucien. 

“ Try to be regular in your meals, neighbor; nothing is more 
injurious to the stomach than to eat at irregular hours. At noon 
and at half-past seven should be the hours, at least these are 
mine, and Tam always well.” 

“ Thank you,” said the young man, conducting her to the door. 

He went out to breakfast, and thought no more of her. 

Two or three days later, Pauline came again at the same hour. 
Lucien was there in such a fever of work that he saw no one ex- 
cept Jalbrun; besides, no one else came to his rooms. 

“ It is I again,” said she. “ Am I in the way 

“Not at all, come in.” 

She placed herself before the canvas. It was the copy of the 
Romanet orchard, from which the young artist had effaced An- 
nie’s profile. 

“There should be a face in this corner,” said Pauline. 

“ There was one,” said Lucien, with a sadness in his tone that 
he could not suppress. 

Pauline looked at him covertly, seeking to divine the expres- 
sion that she should give her face. She saw that it would not 
do to treat him lightly, so she remained silent. 

“You ought to paint a little face,” said she, after a moment; 
“ it would double the charm of the picture. Would you like me 
to pose for it ?” < 

Without waiting for a reply, she placed herself at three-quar- 
ters in a pensive attitude, full of grace and careless ease. 

“Remain like that,” said Lucien, seizing his brushes. 

He rapidly sketched the outline of the young woman on a 
panel which happened to be under his hand, and without saying 
a word worked for nearly an hour. She did not move; without 
giving a sign of weariness or impatience, she posed with the 
ease of a model. 

When he had anived at a certain point he stopped, and looked 
at her smiling. He quietly said, “ Thanks.” ^ 

She went to see what he had done. 

“That is very pretty,” said she. They are right to say that 
you have talent. I am glad that I am able to be of use to you. 
And now I am going to breakfast.” 

She looked at her watch. 

“ How late it is !” cried she. “ You must be hungry.” 

“ Rather,” replied Lucien. 

“I am, and my breakfast is waiting for me down-stairs. Do 
you know what? Come and breakfast with me; it will be much 
nicer than what you can get in a restaurant, and you can finish 
your little sketch this afternoon. I will come back with you. 

Lucien hesitated. The proposition, he knew not why, did not 
please him. Pauline saw this. 

“ You do not wish to accept my breakfast?” said she. “ Oh, 


WILD OATS. 


87 


goodness! if it is because your delicacy forbids, you can easily 
arrange that by sending me a bouquet or a box of marrons glaces 
— it seems to me that ” 

She did not finish, and Lucien, vexed that she had guessed his 
thoughts, and actuated by the instinctive politeness that had 
been the basis of his education, no longer tlared to refuse, for 
fear of wounding her. 

Pauline was not very intelligent, but she was endowed with 
much sense; she understood that in order to please this well-bred 
and delicate young man, she must show herself tender and con- 
siderate. He found himself defenseless against the attractions 
of a home, and of a woman who appeared good, and was so per- 
haps at heart. The meals taken together, the comforts and sort 
of affection that he found here, combined with the artistic satis- 
faction of having a woman who posed well at hand, wove a net 
of elastic meshes about him, so much so that before a fortnight 
he was almost attached to Pauline. 

That cost him dear. The sense of chivalry in the young man 
would not allow him to accept a favor, unless it was immediately 
repaid. 

Jalbrun’s money was quickly spent; Lucien was happy to sell 
a picture that he had been offered double the price for six months 
before, and he began to work with zeal, for he foresaw the com- 
ing of a visitor whom he had heard spoken of, but whom he had 
never seen — poverty. 

He tried to devise pretexts to break with Pauline, but without 
success. The girl had conceived a kind of affection for him in 
which vanity, interest, and love mingled in very variable pro- 
portions, according to days. She knew that he was very much 
embarrassed financially at the time, but she hoped that later on 
he would appreciate her conduct toward him; this was for inter- 
est. Her vanity was satisfied, for she took care that all those 
women who would be annoyed by it should know that she com- 
manded over Lucien Romanet; and, beside she loved that 
amiable fellow as much as any one can love, where love is but a 
caprice on either side and not that exchange of joys which com- 
pletely fills the human heart, and for which man should have 
found another name than that of love. That word has been pro- 
faned too much. 

Jalbrunknew of this connection from the first, and even though 
his life was rather loose, he was very much vexed on account of 
it. He almost reproached himself for having given Lucien the 
means of living honestly, saying to himself that if he had not 
aided him, Pauline would neVer have dreamed of attaching her- 
self to a poor man. In any case, Pauline would probably have 
done as she did, but Lucien would have avoided her, as he now 
avoided all pleasures for which he could not pay. 

^ With his Bohemian instinct, Jalbrun saw dangers in the 
future of whi(?h his friend never dreamed; he knew the tenacity 
of these artistic connections, which nothing can justify, or even 
explain, and which resist everything that would break all the 
serious ties of matrinnn>n^. 


88 


WILD OATS. 


Consequently, he was both pleased and anxious one morning 
to receive a letter from Annie. 

In a few words, she begged him to come to see her, to talk 
about a very serious matter. 

Jalbrun did not have to be asked the second time. Two hours 
later he was at Mantes. 

The Orliet house surprised him, as much as he could be sur- 
prised, and made him comprehend certain sides of the young 
wife’s character which before had been incomprehensible to 
him; the dignity, the seriousness beyond her years, a reserve 
which an enemy might almost call pedantry. All this proved 
habits formed in childhood, in the midst of this almost severe 
luxury, and these surroundings, which spoke more of olden 
times than of the present day. 

Mme. Orliet was with Annie in the drawing-room wlien 
Jalbrun presented himself; he had met her at her daughter’s 
house, but here she appeared another being. Great respect was 
combined with the pity that he felt for these two women, who 
were so worthy of happiness and so cruelly deprived of it. 
After a few moments of ordinary conversation, Annie looked at 
her mother, and, having received a sign of approbation, she 
addressed herself to her husband’s friend in a voice which 
trembled slightly, but which soon became firm. 

“ We wish your advice, monsieur,” said she; “ there are many 
things that my mother and I do not understand; and we beg 
you to guide us in this case, promising in advance to follow your 
advice.” 

Jalbrun frowned. 

“I have scarcely merited your confidence, madame,” he said. 
“Everyday I reproach myself for having introduced Lucien 
into a kind of society in which he has since made such rapid 
progress ” 

“ I have not forgotten that dinner, monsieur,” said Annie, 
“ where my husband made you give him the invitation to that 
ball — do not reproach yourself; the evil was done long before 
then. But this is net what I wished to speak to you about. Be- 
sides the ordinary quarterly allowances, my mother has sent to 
my husband the allowance that she usuaUy gave us, and he has 
refused to accept it. This did not surprise us, for we expected 
it. My mother has divided the amoimt into two equal parts, 
and has sent one half to Lucien; he has also refused that, as he 
did the first. Still, he must live, sir; we cannot allow my hus- 
band to suffer ” 

• Annie’s voice, till now so clear, trembled, and her eyes filled 
with burning tears. Mme. Orliet took up the thread of her dis- 
course: 

“ It is necessary that my son-in-law should live honorably; his 
delicacy in this case does him great honor, whatever his faults 
may be. But his excessive scruples on this point may lead to 
disastrous consequences, even for this delicacy of which he is 
so jealous. He must live by honorable means; and as his work 
cannot yet furnish him sufficient means for existence, his fam- 
ily wish to fitteiid to that. Master Romanet is very angry with 


WILD OAT^. 


89 


his son, and has sworn that he will never send him anything 
more. Can you not find the means to make him accept what he 
needs ?” 

Jalbrun did not reply at once. Plis eyes wandered from one 
woman to the other with an astonishment full of respect. He 
had never known anything like this in his life; he had often 
heard mothers- in-law declare that they would never give their 
sons-in-law, a sou, but he had never met a mother-in-law who 
was searching for means to make a recalcitrant son-in-law ac- 
cept what was legally due him. 

“ Whkt an imbecile that Lucien is!” thought he; “to have a 
family like this and to commit the follies that he has.” 

“ Well, monsieur,” said Annie’s crystal voice; as she leaned to- 
ward him to read his face she tried to divine his reply. 

“I am so surprised by what I have heard, ladies,” said he> 
“ that I scarcely know what to say to you. We must find some 
means. You are right.” 

“Pardon, monsieur,” said Madame Orliet, “could you tell us 
what my son-in-law has been living upon ? Borrowed money, 
doubtlessly. This money must be returned. Do you know to 
who)n?” 

Jalbrun hesitated a moment and then decided to tell the 
truth. 

“ It is I, madame, w ho has had the happiness to render this 
slight service to my friend, but you will oblige me very much by 
not speaking of it. I only confess it to you to put your mind at 
rest, thinking that you would prefer to know that it is I, be- 
cause you wish to tell me everything, and you honor me with 
your confidence.” 

“I thank you, monsieur,” said Mme. Oiliet. “What you 
tell me eases my mind, and if you wish it, we will no longer 
speak of it. Can you not tell my son-in-law that you will con- 
tinue to be his banker.” 

“ He would not believe me, madame,” said Jalbrun smiling. 
“ He knows two w ell that my resources are limited. I was im- 
prudent enough to tell him the amount of my savings, and sus- 
picious as he is, if he should suspect the truth he would lose 
the confidence that he has in me, and which is of such service to 
us all.” 

All three were very much embarrassed. 

“ Mamma,” said Annie, suddenly, “ Madame Romanet must 
be our accomplice.” 

“ Do you know that she cannot do anything without her hus- 
band’s consent ?” 

“ Yes, but she can say that she has borrow ed it; Lucien would 
accept from his mother what he would refuse from everybody 
else.^ 

Jalbrun was more and more astonished. 

There were female hearts without malice. These women who 
had suffered grief and outrage, thought only of the happi- 
ness of the ungrateful one, and they who had never lied, de- 
scended to a falsehood to perfect their devotion. 


90 


WILD OATS, 


“ Very well,” said Mme. Orliet to her daughter. “ Let us 
send for Madame Eomanet.” 

It was not easy to make the latter understand what they 
wished of her. In the midst of a deluge of tears, she incessantly 
repeated that her poor son was not so wicked as they tried to 
believe. That if Annie had listened to her advice, and returned 
to Paris, all would have been arranged, she was sure of it. But 
young wives have so much vanity, and they could not endure 
the slightest contradiction, even when it was for everybody’s 
good. 

Annie listened patiently; she was accustomed to these little 
recriminations, and Jalhrun noticed a slight smile on her lips, 
when her mother -in-law spoke of the vanity of young wives. 
This smile was neither cynical nor bitter, it was a feeling of in- 
justice that had become comical because it was so absurd. Then 
Mme. Romanet stopped, Annie embraced her affectionately and 
spoke to her as to a child. 

“You are right, madame,” sai<l she, “ but since the evil exists 
the important thing now is to repair it. You know that your 
son has refused to accept the money that my mother has sent 
him. There is Monsieur Jalbrun, who has a great friendship 
for Lucien, who consents to act as messenger between us and 
him. Will you allow him to say to Lucien that you will send 
him an income while his affairs are being arranged ?” 

The discussion was long; Mme. Romanet was afraid that her 
husband would discover the stratagem, and that the anger of the 
terrible notary would fall upon herself. Maternal love carried 
the day, however, and she begged Jalbrun to watch over her 
child as if he were at that age when timid mothers confide their 
school-boy sons to the care of an older student, begging him to 
prevent the little one from getting into mischief. 

Jalbrun departed for Paris under the impression that he had 
just passed two hours in a dream-land, where nothing is done as 
it is in real life. All astray in his mind, comprehending noth- 
ing, he asked himself how so much severity could prevail; if 
Annie’s weary eyes, and Mme. Orliet’s hair, now streaked with 
gray, had not revealed to him their secret sorrows, which were 
the price of their outward calm. 

Would Lucien believe these devoted women’s pious lie ? With 
anybody but Jalbrun the negotiation would have run great risk; 
but he knew so weU how to mingle pleasantry and truth, he 
could present things in such a particularly favorable light, that 
he would accept from him what he would reject from anybody 
else, thanks to that mixture of folly and seriousness which, 
many times, had left the questioner hesitating before an un- 
deniable truth which he presented in some unexpected manner. 

The young man was deeply touched by the thought that his 
mother, breaking all the habits of her life, had found means to 
obtain money to send to him; he reflected that such a sacrifice 
required great devotion from a woman who was naturally timid 
and without energy, and he was surprised at this evidence of 
the sublimity of maternal love. 

What would he have thought of Annie’s love if he had known 


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91 


by what subterfuges she had succeeded in arousing such reflec- 
tions in him ? But Lucien’s state of mind did not yet allow him 
to admit the idea that such nobility of soul could exist in the 
woman whom he had so deeply wronged. The knowledge of 
that truth would have burned him like a red hot iron. He had 
put far from him the memory of her whom he had so much 
misunderstood, and would have done, no matter what, to try to 
forget the generosity which made his wrong greater and more 
difficult to bear. 

When Lucien was alone, he felt a great relief and yet a feel- 
ing of sadness. Nothing made him feel his isolation so much as 
the fact that his mother had to send him money surreptitiously. 
Brought up in ease, married luxuriously, the young painter 
learned for the first time, what it is to struggle with life and to 
quarrel with his family. His tnelancholy soul tried in vain to 
quiet itself with some less painful thought. Pauline offered him 
the resources of art and of forgetfulness, and he yielded to her 
blindly. 

He was soon entirely in her power; due to the influence which 
she exercised on his daily life, especially those smaller details 
which form an invisible net around those men who are absorbed 
in their daily avocations. Occasionally Lucien said to himself 
that this woman was making herself too necessary to his life, 
that a rupture must come sooner or later; his good sense would 
not allow the meshes of this net to be drawn too tightly around 
him — but good sense had long since deserted him; it had depart- 
ed with Annie and her child. 

Many things must happen in order to break with Pauline; 
first, to endure tender and angiy scenes; and Lucien, brought 
up in a home where the father commanded and the mother 
obeyed passively, had an instinctive terror of family disputes. 
The ruptures that had preceded his connection with Pauline had 
disgusted him with every sort of noisy discussion; Pauline, when 
she was discontented, did not give vent to her ill-humor in any 
way that offended the young man. She was foolish; and in re- 
ality she was not even pretty, save a sort of charm which came 
from her person, and which upon an intimate acquaintance 
seemed commonplace, artificial, or assumed. She was full of 
little faults that were difficult to bear — but she was there. To 
leave her he would have to find another studio, move out, and 
begin a new existence again. Lucien did not feel equal to the 
effort. 

Therefore he worked, and worked well. Under the blow of 
the whip of suffering hisitalent had taken a new lease, and almost 
a new form. His sufferings were not those which ennoble a 
man, and purify him by passing through the fiery furnace; his 
sufferings were mingled with remorse, and he felt that he must 
work or they would kill him — and Lucien had no wish to die. 

At the opening of the Salon he did not have that enormous 
success which “ The Romanet Orchard” had brought- him, nor 
even that which he had acquired at the last Salon. His canvases, 
finished under the influence of unwholesome preoccupations, 


62 WILD OAT^, 

did not prevent that harmony of qualities which is necessary to 
excite admiration. 

His friends made excuses for him and defended him as well as 
they could; his good comrades annihilated him with perfect 
unanimity. Lucien had exhausted himself, that was plain I 
The life that he led caused itl It was clear that no one could 
work well and lead such a life of pleasure! Family life was a 
surer guarantee of serious qualities, etc. 

Those who spoke thus had only the night before tried to pro- 
mulgate an entirely opposite opinion, and affirmed that a true 
artist should be absolutely free from all ties, if he wished to pre- 
serve the integrity of his genius; but most men do not get angry 
at infallible logic, and good comrades do so less than others. 

Lucien was classed by his friends, among those who had 
achieved their highest success. The public, not caring about 
that, bought his pictures. Of a less noble ideal, and of less value 
as works of art, they were more pleasing to the general public, 
and they were well paid for. 

' For the first time since the ball at the Courtois Studio Lucien 
felt contented. He had so far effaced Annie’s image from his 
heart that he no longer thought pf her. Filled with triumphant 
joy he took Pauline to one of the villages on the borders of the 
forest of Fontainebleau frequented by painters and their com- 
panions. He passed six weeks there making studies, buried in 
the delights of labor to that extent that he thought of nothing 
else. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Pauline was often alone; the sun made her head ache, she did 
not like the open air, and to speak the truth, like many models, 
she could now and then give some good hints about a picture, 
but she was incapable of finding any pleasure in the contempla- 
tion of nature. For her, as for many others, a landscape was a 
pretty motive for a study; her comprehension of the beautiful did 
not extend beyond that.” 

Therefore she was bored. She took with her wherever she 
went an interminable piece of crochet-work, which did not 
amuse her much, but which was a pretense of doing something. 
Seated in the garden attached to the small house which they had 
rented for the season, she watched people pass by on the warm 
afternoons; then, toward night-fall she walked along slowly to 
meet Lucien, stopping here and there to chat with country 
women, and stopping at the inn-door to see some tourist from 
Paris, some old acquaintance come there by chance. 

During the second week in July, a painter, one of those whom 
Lucien called his friends, one of those who had so charitably 
judged him, came to spend a few days in the village. He was 
accompanied by an elegant young man, who was rather 
haughty, a cynic and a skeptic, and who, in twenty-four hours, 
became the reigning favorite iu the village. 

The handsome fellow, with his glass in his eye, took this ad- 
miration haughtily, as his riglit, like a man who is accustomed 


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93 


to such success. Pauline alone found favor in his eyes. Did 
she owe this flattering exception to the superior distinction 
which surrounded her, or did the charming Ralboise condescend 
to look upon her because she appeared more like a proper mar- 
ried woman, than the others? It did not signify. 

He commenced to correct her discreetly, like a man who wishes 
to be agreeable, for the time, but who would not be held to any- 
thing serious. 

The j^oung woman had began to weary of the life she led here. 
At Paris, while Lucien was at work, she came and went, her 
time was her own. she was faithful from habit and from in- 
dolence; here, things were different and Ralboise knew it well. 

Naturally, as one might predict, Lucien took a fancy to him, 
and often invited him to dinner with the friend who had 
brought him there. Pauline played the role of lady of the house 
marvelously well; she truly believed herself at home, and the 
thought of deceiving Romanet, which had certainly taken hold 
of this small brain, had not done so without causing her a slight 
shiver, almost as much as if she had been his wife. 

But the occasion was too tempting, her loneliness too irksome, 
and the summer afternoons too long. One fine day, while the 
entire village was taking its siesta with shades lowered and 
shutters closed, while the hens rolled themselves in the dust, and 
the weary dogs stretched themselves under the shadows of the 
roofs and slept as if they were dead, Ralboise entered the 
house, the door of which was not closed. 

Pauline was reading, lying on a sofa in the dining-room. In 
her white muslin, in the shade of the half-light, she was very 
attractive. On seeing the young man enter, she made a show of 
being sui7)rised. He advanced on tiptoe and went and sat 
down beside her. 

Some flirting, for Pauline took things almost seriously, and 
some eloquence on the part of Ralboise, of which he had not be- 
lieved himself capable, prolonged the conversation without ad- 
vancing it much, which seemed to afford infinite pleasure to 
them both; they felt as serious and convinced of the importance 
of that interview as children who play at housekeeping and are 
extravagantly and excessively polite to each other. 

Suddenly a man's step was heard in the little vestibule. Pau- 
line arose quickly and listened, witli the pallor of a woman who 
has been detected in an indiscretion. Ralboise moved away from 
her frowning; this did not amuse him in the least. Lucien en- 
tered, followed by Jalbrun. The latter cast a look of ironical 
respect upon the woman, and then glanced at Ralboise with a 
slight smile of congratulation. 

There was nothing to say. Everything was irreproachable, 
and yet the two friends blushed in common accord. Ralboise, 
who was acquainted with Jalbrun, extended his hand, saying to 
him: 

“ You here? I thought I had left you on the asphalt of the 
boulevard!’’ 

“ That is like me!” responded the musician, in his unmistak- 
ably bantering tone, which made him bo formidable. “I was on 


94 


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the asphalt, and I said to myself, ‘ The woods want my presence, 
the gravel of the forest is sweet to w'eary feet. I will go and see 
my friends; they are surrounded by nature, they are! The sight 
of city life does not corrupt the purity of their souls! And I am 
here!’ ” 

There was great embarrassment between these four people. 
Lucien, his features contracted, paced up and down the little 
room, without knowing what he was doing. 

“ How did you find Lucien without coming here to inquire for 
him ?” asked Pauline, who could not yet understand Romanet's 
return or the presence of his friend. 

“ It is the true canine instinct with which kind nature has en- 
dowed me,” replied Jalbrun. “ On arriving here, I breathed the 
country air, and as I was just in front of the inn, I said to the 
inn-keeper: ‘ Have you seen Monsieur Romanet pass by ?’ An 
urchin assured me that he was familiar with all the habits of 
that distinguished artist. I followed him and he did not deceive 
me, since we are here.” 

There was silence. Ralboise took his hat to go away. 

“Are you going to remain here some time?” said Pauline, 
who felt an increasing uneasiness. 

“ Oh, no; only a few days.” 

Lucien had disappeared. She heard him walking about in the 
room overhead. 

“ But how did you come?” insisted Pauline. 

“ In a carriage, a caleche, if you please!” 

“ How delightful the airof the woods is!” said Jalbrun with an 
air of great candor. 

They were standing, and no one knew what to do. At last 
Ralboise went toward the door. 

“ Are you going?” said Jalbrun. Stay awhile; I have scarcely 
seen you!” 

Lucien’s step was heard on the creaking staircase and he imme- 
diately appeared at the door, wdth a traveling bag in his hand. 
Pauline was frightened. “ I am obliged to go away,” said the 
young artist, in a serious tone. “ My mother is ill, and has sent 
for me. I will let you hear from me.” 

Pauline drew out her handkerchief; she no longer knew 
where she was. and it would have taken but little to throw her 
into hysterics. What upset her most was, that she did not 
kno\y whether it was the presence of Ralboise which caused this 
hurried departure or not. 

“ Good-bye, Pauline,” said Lucien drawing her to him. “ You 
will find what will be useful to you on the mantel in the cham- 
ber, and I will write to you very soon.” 

He kissed the young woman’s forehead, shook the hand of 
the dazed Ralboise, and went out followed by Jalbrun, who dis- 
played most marked serenity. 

After they had gone, Pauline remained silent a moment, list- 
ening. 

The rumbling of a carriage was heard, she ran to the hall- 
door and saw the caleche turn the corner bearing the twg 

men, 


WILD OATS. 


95 


She returned hurriedly to the dining-room, where Ralboise, 
extremely annoyed, was standing in the same place, feeling that 
he had acted hke a imbecile, and not knowing what to do. 

^‘He has abandoned me,” she said “and I have no one but 
you I ” 

This was not exactly what Ralboise wished, but m the mean- 
time he had no other resource than to dry Pauhne’s tears— real 
tears of anger and vexation— and he did it with a very good 
grace. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

Mme. Romanet was really very ill ; for some time the little 
strength she had was exhausted, and her illness made rapid 
progress. She went to bed, upon her physician’s advice, and 
asked for her son. 

Master Romanet was in a tearing passion, declaring that this 
reprobate should never cross the threshold of that house, but on 
a word from the physician he suddenly grew calm, became very 
gentle and quiet, full of attentions to liis wife, and upon the 
advice of Mme. Orliet sent for Jalbrun. 

Tlie latter talked for half an hour with Annie's mother, listen- 
ed to the heavy eloquence of the notary for a time longer, and 
went into the invalid’s room. Mme. Romanet pressed his 
hand affectionately, and he promised her that her son should be 
with her the next evening and hurried off to the country with- 
out loss of time. 

Lucien was very much affected upon learning that his mother 
had sent for him thus. If his father had consented to let him 
come, her illness must be very serious. Jalbrun, whose sagacity 
never deceived him, would not say all that he thought; Mme. 
Romanet was ill, undoubtedly, but the joy of seeing her son 
again might perhaps cure her. 

“It is not sori’ow that is the cause of her illness, is it?” Lucien 
kept asking incessantly, with the anxious persistency of one who 
reproached himself, and whom nothing can reassure while his 
conscience accuses him. 

“ No,” said his friend in all sincerity. “ Your mother’s health 
has never been good, and it should not surprise you tliat an old ill- 
ness should manifest itself anew, under the influence of this hot 
weather. Has not this happened twent}* times before ?” 

This was true, but Lucien could not be convinced. 

They arrived at Mantes very late in the evening. Jalbrun, 
considering his mission ended, wished to return to Paris, but 
Lucien clung to him as the only intercessor who could facilitate 
his entrance into the paternal mansion. The musician, who was 
as amiable and obliging as ever, accompanied his friend. 

The notary’s dining-room was lighted by a single candle when 
they entered. The whole house had that air of desertion and 
confusion which always prevails when the mistress of the house 
is ill. Things were not in their usual places, closets remained 
opened, wdiich showed that the keys had fallen into the servants’ 
hands; in the half darkness, in the midst of this unusual dis- 


96 


WILD OATS. 


order, the tick-tick of the great clock went on imperturbably an- 
nouncing the flight of these sad hours as it had announced the 
most joyful moments. 

Lucien, during this time, standing in the large room, his 
hand leaning absently upon the heavy table where he had taken 
60 many meals, waited while his mother was being prepared for 
his coming. The memory of a happy day suddenly came back 
to him. 

. It was the Christmas-eve when he had just discovered Annie’s 
first trembling emotion, when his eyes had seen on that delicate 
and charming face the first embarrassment which spoke so 
plainly of love. 

AU that seemed so far away! The happy years seemed to him 
only the memory of a dream; the five or six months which had 
just passed were alone present in his memory, and they illu- 
mined it with the fitful light of a conflagration. 

Suddenly a troubled and painful question presented itself to 
him; until now he had thought only of his mother; he supposed 
that Mme. Orliet would take her daughter to the sea-shore as she 
had done in former years, but, if she were here? If he should 
find Annie in the shadow of Mme. Romanet’s bed-curtains! 

He was going to question Jalbrun when the door opened and 
his father entered. 

He was no longer the old notary, vain and jealous of his au- 
thority; he was a broken-down, aged, white-haired man, whose 
look had lost its former imperious vivacity. Lucien raised his 
eyes to him, and without knowing how it happened, they found 
themselves in each other’s arms. 

“ Come,” said Master Romanet to his son, “ she is waiting for 
you.” 

His voice was weak and as changed as his feeble body. Still 
holding Lucian’s hand, he conducted him to his wife’s bedside. 

Here it was brilliantly lighted up. Mme. Romanet wished to 
see her son as if it were daylight. Sitting up in bed, her eyes 
sparkling with joy, her color heightened by pleasure and ex- 
pectation, she did not appear to suffer the least in the world; 
and yet the old family doctor, who had attended at Lucien’s 
birth, stood at the other side of the bed with his finger upon the 
old lady’s pulse. 

“My beautiful boy! my Lucien!” said she. “You are here 
at last, my poor little one!” 

She withdrew her hand from that of the physician to hold 
her son in her arms. He covered her with kisses, and she 
smiled on him. Falling back upon her pillows, she looked at 
him lovingly; the physician again took her pulse between his 
fingers. 

“ Talk to her,” said he to the young man.” 

Lucien began to talk at random; he had had a pleasant jour- 
ney; he was very happy to see her again; the sun was very 
beautiful and the forest at Fontainebleau was so green * He was 
getting along very well with his painting; he had sold two pict- 
ures at a very good price 

Here she made a scarcely perceptible movement and looked 


WILD OATS. 


97 


at her husband with a slight fear. Lucien well understood 
that the thought of the borrowed money weighed heavily upon 
the conscience of this timorous woman. 

“lam very rich, mamma,” said he; “I did have some few 
debts, but I have paid them all. I am doing well now.” 

Mme. Romanet had exhausted all her strength in her first 
embrace: now, her son saw her as she really was; her face was 
furrowed, her eyes were too bright, with an expression of deep 
anguish which arises from heart disease. 

“ Have you seen your wife and your child ?” asked she, in a 
voice as feeble as a sigh. 

Lucien became pale. Then they were here ! He had not an- 
ticipated that. Jalbrun entered noiselessly and answered for 
him. 

“He has thought only of you, dear madame,” he said, “ you 
will not reproach him for that ?” 

Mme. Romanet smiled and gently pressed Lucien’s fingers, 
which she still held. Suddenly the physician, who held her other 
hand, made a gesture of alarm; his mother’s fingers loosened 
their hold, her eyes closed and Lucien saw her fall back help- 
lessly. 

“ A syncope,” said the doctor. “ 1 expected it.” 

They opened the window and with great difficulty resuscitated 
the poor woman. Lucien was seized with an unconquerable 
fear. Had he come to see her die? Was it he who had killed 
her, first by his absence and then by his presence ? When she 
reopened her eyes, and her look, wandering at first, was fixed 
upon him with evident joy, he felt that he could breathe 
again. 

“And now,” said the physician, “ let everybody go away. You 
must try to sleep, must you not, madame?” 

She nodded her head regretfully. Lucien obtained permission 
to remain in the next room, and Jalbrun went to the station to 
take the midnight train to Paris. 

Mme. Romanet slept and the nurse who watched with her 
dozed. The notary, overcome with fati^ie, had thrown himself 
somewhere on a bed. Unable to remain quiet, Lucien entered 
his mother’s room and looked at her a long while bj' the dicker- 
ing light of the night-lamp. 

She was very much changed, oh, yes, very much indeed! Then 
it is true, this terrible heart disease is incurable. For some years 
you believe yourself rid of it, then it returns with redoubled in- 
tensity, and you are a prey to the most frightful sufferings — 
everything that was assured the night before, becomes doubtful 
on the morrow. 

The young man remembered that eight or nine years ago he 
had seen her as she was now. They had sent for him as they 
did yesterday; but then they found him at the lyceum. He was 
about to present himself for the baccalaureate, and they had 
taken him away very late at night. 

It was Mme. Orliet who had undertaken that sad mission. 
He remembered with what considerate gentleness, with what 


WILD OATS. 


tender precautions she had told him that his mother was dan- 
gerously ill, that perhaps he might not find her alive. 

He had not forgotten how, in the train in which they traveled 
at night, he had wept in the arms of that good-hearted woman, 
who wept with him in his grief. 

Everywhere in the young man’s memory Mme. Orliet was 
next to his parents: sometimes acting as peacemaker in his diffi- 
culties, she was truly his second mother. Now, how she must 
detest him, despise him, perhaps — despise him ? no! for he had 
refused her money; she might hate him, but she had no right 
to despise liim. 

Mme. Romanet moved in her sleep, and Lucien left the room 
to avoid all emotion. 

Day was dawning outside; he opened his window and looked 
at the still gray sky. 

Another memory of the past suddenly came up before him, 
borne on the first breath of the morning air. It was his wedding- 
day, when, incapable of containing his joy, he had gone down to 
the banks of the river to breathe more freely on the velvety 
grass, under the quiet trees. He was happy then. Cruel life, 
what had it done with his happiness ? 

He remained at the window a long time. The swallows com- 
menced to fly about in the blue sky around the towers of the old 
church, which appeared white, and then gilded by the rays of 
the Gun which was now rising. His heart melted, all his happy 
youth came back to him, like little children coming to embrace 
their parents, their faces lighted up, their hands extended, re- 
sembling animated flowers, 

He threw himself into an arm-chair and slept, with a sort of 
new hope in his soul, which had long been saddened. 

A slight noise, like the rattling of tissue paper, aroused him 
with a start. Daylight came in through the window, and his 
wife stood before him looking at him. He arose at once: she, 
surprised at this act, remained motionless, ashamed, her head 
turned away, her eyes lowered. Some one spoke in Mme. 
Romanet’s room, the door of which was open. 

“ I beg pardon,” murmured tlie young wife. “ I did not know 
that ” 

He could not avoid looking at her. 

Since their separation, she had grown more womanly, more 
beautiful; less pretty, perhaps. Her features were thinner 
and refined by suffering. She possessed a mysterious charm, 
such as Lucien had never yet met anywhere, not even in her. 

“ Good-day, Annie,” he said simply. 

She raised her eyes, full of reproach, of grief, of shame upon 
him. Ah! what a world of meaning in tihat look, and how she 
must have suffered to have acquired such a depth of meaning in 
those eyes! 

He approached her and took her hand; she allowed him to do 
so. He approached still nearer and kissed her forehead. He 
felt that she drew back with a shiver under his kiss. 

He let fall the hand which he held, and went toward his 
mother’s room. 


WILD OATS. 


dd 

Mme. Orliet was there; they shook hands without 
speaking, even without emotion. The sick-room was no 
place to manifest any personal feelings. The poor woman’s 
strength failed visibly, and the physican would no longer 
express an opinion. A moment later Mme. Romanet 
asked for her granddaughter. She was brought to her. 
She wished to see her in Lucien’s arms. He obediently 
took the child, embraced her, spoke to her. She was amiable 
and pretty, delicate and refined like her mother; she allowed him 
to caress and pet her, but she did not recognize him. Lucien 
himself did not experience the slightest emotion. His heart had 
become like stone, it was heavy and cold in his breast. From 
the manner in which Annie had drawn back, he understood that 
she would not forgive him, and in that funereal house, where his 
return had brought the last joy, he, the prodigal son. the former 
cause of so much happiness, felt as a stranger, notwithstanding 
the contradictory appearances. 

“You will not go away again ?” said Mme. Romanet to her 
son, as he leaned over her to embrace her. 

He made a negative sign with his head and pressed her hand; 
but he could not take upon himself, even in that supreme hour 
to take an oath which he might not perhaps be able to keep. 

His mother lived two days longer, sometimes appearing so 
much better that all were hopeful and sometimes suffering so 
that those who watched over her dared not breathe, their 
hearts were so full of tears. She died at last peacefully, while 
asleep, and passed from this life as quietly as she had lived. 

The two succeeding days seemed like the continuation of a bad 
dream to Lucien. For forty-eight hours he had to talk, to act, 
to write, to reply, in fact, to take upon himself the double re- 
sponsibility which fell to his father and to himself. 

Master Romanet was crushed under his load of sorrow. The 
gentle and resigned companion of thirty years of work and of 
confidence had taken away more from his life than he could 
have believed. He had never fully appreciated the place 
that this woman, who was often silent and accustomed to 
submit to him without appeal, had held in his life. It was when 
he saw her carried forth from the house that she had made so 
comfortable, where she had ofttimes endured his terrible and un- 
reasonable bursts of anger, where she had never commenced a 
discussion, nor refused to submit, that the notary did justice to 
her who had borne his name. His sorrow w^as deep and sincere, 
it made him reflect upon himself, and he saw that his violent 
nature had more than once made her weep silently; if bis too 
tardy regrets did not become remorse, it was because he knew 
in his heart tliat, in spite of all this, his wife loved him enough 
to have been happy to live near him whom she looked upon as 
her joy and her happiness. 

After the return from the cemetery. Master Romanet went into 
bis study and made his son go in before him. 

“ You must return to your wife,” said he, without preamble. 

Lu(fien did not reply. For two days, in the midst of his grief, 


IOC WILD OATS. 

this thought had come to him from time to time like the sting 
of a needle. 

“ You cannot stay here,” said his father; “ your conduct has 
already been the cause of too much gossip. Your return will 
end that; profit by this to give up a painful state of things, let 
your mother s death at least serve some purpose.” 

TTie notary stopped short, looked at the portrait of Mme. 
Eomanet behind his arm-chair, and which he had never before 
looked at once a year, and said: 

“ Do you see, Lucien, I do not think that we husbands do our 
wives justice; we require them to sacrifice their tastes, their 
preferences, their friendships. We find it very easy to impose 
ours upon them, and we do not even ask if what we exact does 
not inspire them with some repugnance. You have wronged 
your vife greatly Lucien; but let us not speak of that. She is 
an excellent creature. She will forgive you, I am sure of it, for 
she loves you. Madame Orliet also loves you, more than you 
deserve. In fact, let the past be forgotten. The future is in 
your hands; it depends upon you to make it happy or unhappy ; 
choose the right way, my son.” 

His emotion overcame him. Lucien approached to take his 
hand. Master Romanet opened his arras to him. 

“ To-morrow morning you must go to your mother in-law’s,” 
said he; “ everything will be arranged, you may be sure.” 

The next day Lucien went to Mme. Orliet’s. 

His heart beat strangely when he rang the bell, like a stranger, 
at the gate of that house — his house, from which he had volun- 
tarily exiled himself. He entered the drawing-room like an or- 
dinary visitor, and remained standing, disconcerted, embar- 
rassed, suffering fearful shocks to his vanity. 

The door opened, and his mother -in-law entered, dressed in 
mourning, looking extremely tired and worn, less by the weary 
watches at the bedside of the patient than by other griefs. 

Lucien bowed to her respectfully; she took liis hand, and 
made him sit beside her on the narrow little sofa, where they 
had chatted so often in former days. 

My child,” said she, thus saving the young man the embar- 
rassment of speaking first, “in the last few months painful 
events have happened to us. Misfortune brings us together to- 
day; it seems to me that the only thing we can do now is to turn 
over that page of the book and commence another.” 

Lucien confessed that he was conquered. This generosity, this 
delicacy left him defenseless; if he had met the reproaches that 
he had expected, he would have asserted himself and imposed 
conditions. But what could he do in the presence of such a mag- 
nanimity of forgiveness, which did not even ask explanations ? 

Bending toward his mother-in-law’s hands, he covered them 
with kisses, while he felt her hot tears slowly fall on his hair. 

“ And Annie?” said he, after a moment. 

“Annie thinks as I do. You were married too young, my 
dear child. What has happened was the natural consequence of 
your education and your too early marriage. She has had sense 
enough to understand that — not of herself, for her experience in 


WILD OATS, 


101 


life has not taught her anything about such things, but she has 
accepted in good faith what I have explained to her. She has 
great love for you, Lucien; do not abuse it; that is all I can ask 
of you now ’* 

She arose, and went out quickly; a second after Annie en- 
tered. [ 

Blushing and embarrassed, timid — a hundred times more timid 
than during the first days of her marriage, for then she had 
perfect confidence in the man whom she lov^ — she advanced to 
the middle of the room, 

Lucian only needed a look from her and he would have em- 
braced her with all the ardor of the happy days of their so 
recent past. 

“ Annie,” said he. 

The young wife trembled at that voice, which vibrated with 
its former tenderness. She turned her head and looked at him. 
What reproach in those eyes which used only to smile at him. 

“ Annie,” repeated Lucien. 

She approached him slowly^, he bent to her and took her 
hands. 

“ I have made you suffer very much,” said he in a low voice. 
“ I was crazy. Can you forgive me?” 

She burst into tears, bitter, irrepressible, inconsolable tears, 
and wept like a child. He drew her toward him and made her 
sit down with his arm around her. She resisted a little, he in- 
sisted, she yielded and continued to weep, with her head on her 
husband’s shoulder. 

He spoke to her gently and soothingly; she listened to him, 
sometimes saying “ Yes,” but oftener was silent, and she still 
wept quietly, like a stream that has been long dammed up and 
which slowly overfiows. 

She wept now for her desecrated, lost love which could never 
return to her. 

Her mother had tried to make her understand certain things 
during the sad period through which they had just passed. Mme. 
Orliet’s wisdom had taught her daughter the necessity for for- 
giveness. No wisdom could re-establish a love that was wounded 
unto death. 

Until the very moment when Lucian had asked her: “Can 
you forgive me?” Annie had believed that she could forgive 
him; she had accepted the reasons that had been given her to 
excuse' her husband’s conduct; in her heart there was neither 
anger nor ill will against him, she had given him her hand in 
good faith and without reserve, he was powerless now to revive 
confidence and adoration which are the essence of love. The 
word forgiveness meant in itself, that something was irrepa- 
rably lost. Annie forgave, but her ’young love was dead. 

Triumphant love, the conquerer, which does not allow an evil 
thought, which justifies all impossibilities because of love, 
which brings joys and admiration to the feet of the loved 
being, which has no preferences, but says, smilingly, “ Everything 
shall be as you wish I” This winged, strange, divine divinity 
eleve^tes us above all human misery. It is marvelous, but it is 


102 


WILD OATS. 


fragile. It is like the butterfly wings of Psyche. When cruel 
fingers ruthlessly brush the down from its wings it falls to earth, 
and slowly dies in unspeakable agony. 

From this love — like the phenix, it arises from its ashes, but 
under a new form — it springs forth as a resigned and compas- 
sionate tenderness batlied in tears, which forgives and which suf- 
fers. It is still love, for love alone can forgive to this degree, 
but it is no longer joy. This love fears when it is a,pproached 
and when it is touched; for its wounded wings are still painful: 
it smiles and looks at its executioner with unspeakable sweets 
ness, and begs of him, as a favor, never to touch it with his 
hand, however gently. 

For a long time Annie loved Lucien as a brother. Friendship, 
which in noble souls survives love and sometimes substitutes 
itself for it, had existed in Annie’s heart before her love for him; 
whatever had been her husband's wrongs toward her, she could 
never help loving him, excusing him, defending him even. 
As she leaned on his shoulder she felt that she was near a being 
who was very dear to her— but it was not her husband, whom 
she felt near her, it was her friend; the companion of her youth. 

Lucien knew nothing of this. He loved her, and had never 
ceased to love her: he saw her gentle and resigned, he felt that 
no hard feelings could find place in that pure, transparent soul; 
he said to himself that this bad dream would end, that daylight 
would drive away those phantoms, that they would be happy. 

Pressing his wife closely to his heart, he tried to kiss her eyes, 
which were filled with tears. She gently disengaged herself, * 
and with the same slight shudder that he had noticed before, 
when he attempted to kiss her, said to him: 

“ I am going to bring Louisette.” 

Lucien was somewhat surprised, feeling that something, he 
did not know what, had just escaped him, something that it 
would be difficult to recover. 

The young wife returned with the child in her arms and her 
husband saw on her face the smiles wliich he loved so well. 
Mme. Orliet, who had just rejoined them, made no allusion to 
the past, and when they were seated at the breakfast-table, one 
would have thought that all misunderstandings were over and 
that they had never been separated. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

After dinner Annie pretended that she had a severe headache 
and shut herself up in her room. Lucien had promised to spend 
the evening with his father and he did so. 

The young man was his mother’s heir and this necessitated a 
journey to Vosges, where Mme. Romanet had owned some 
property. The notary advised his son to make this journey at 
once, while his family affairs were in their present state, and 
this would prevent unpleasant remarks and useless comments. 
But he wished Annie to accompany her husband. 

Lucien gladly welcomed this proposition, for he wished to be 
alone with his wife. To be alone with her would be most 


WILD OATS. 


103 


vorable for the return of 1 heir oH love. On returning to Mme. 
Orliet’s, he announced his intended journey, and was rejoiced to 
find that Mme. Orliet agreed with him. 

Annie’s consent was still required, and the young man did 
not doubt that he would obtain it. Mme. Orliet was not so sure 
of it; but she said nothing, thinking that she might be mistaken. 

Annie was asleep. Lucien had to wait until the next day to 
know her decision. 

Lucien was assigned a room that was not his own, and passed a 
very bad night, troubled by painful dreams and new apprehen- 
sions. He knew not why, but he felt that everything was going 
against him, and this idea haunted him pitilessly. 

Morning came at last; hedared not knock at Annie’s door, and 
he felt himself extraordinarily ill at ease in this house — where he 
felt like a total stranger. 

Disconcerted, not knowing what to do, he wandered from the 
drawing-rooms to the dining-room, where he waited until he saw 
his wife appear. 

“ I have to go to Vosges,” said he rather abruptly, for waiting 
so long had made him nervous. “ Will you go wdh ne' • 

Annie was silent and became pale. In her conscience she 
wished to do all that he asked of her: her pure soul revolted 
from a subterfuge as much as from a falsehood; yet she dared 
not make a promise which she knew would be beyond her power 
to keep, nor to refuse the first thing that he asked her. 

“Well?” said Lucien, impatiently. 

“ No,” said she in a low tone, hansfing her head. 

She raised it again immediately, and looked at him sup- 
plicatingly. 

“ Not yet, my friend,” she said. “ I cannot, I assure you.” 

“As you like,” replied Lucien, turning away from her. “I 
know that I have no right to insist.” 

She had remained standing, pale and troubled, with an ex- 
pression of doubt and sorrow on her face; Tie came toward her 
and tried to apologize for his abruptness. 

“I understand,” said he with more gentleness, “that you 
want a little time to accustom yourself to my presence, after so 
long a separation. O^nly let me hope that you will welcome me 
more favorably upon my return.” 

“ Oh, Lucien!” said Annie, clasping her hands “If you only 
knew how much I love you and how much I wish to see you 
happy!” 

He” leaned toward her and embraced her; she did not draw 
back this time, but he felt that she nerved herself to prevent the 
shudder, and that notwithstanding her effort she could scarcely 
prevent it. 

He looked into her eyes; she smiled at him 

The young wife’s will was not stronger than his; it was her 
instinct which governed her. Lucien felt that their difficulties 
had not yet ended; but what could he do ? 

Hoping everj^thing from time and rest, the young man went 
away that evening. 

It was understood between them, without any useless discus- 


104 


WILD OATS. 


sion, that they should return to Paris as soon as their affairs 
could be arranged. Annie would spend a few days there putting 
the house in order, and changing things so that nothing should 
recall the painful past to their eyes or to their minds. 

Lucien wrote a farewell letter to Pauline, which he gave Jal- 
brun to deliver. 

As he sincerely desired to return to his family life, he at once 
sent his studies and the pictures that he had commenced to his 
home in Paris. Thence he intended to go with his wife and 
child to the sea-shore, and soon commence his work for the follow- 
ing season. 

The young man’s journey ended sooner than he expected. 
Less than a week later, at about ten o’clock one evening, he 
found himself at the station de VEst, with his traveling-bag in 
his hand. 

He asked himself whether he should take the train for 
Mantes that night or remain and sleep in Paris. Because of the 
hour, and fearing lest he should annoy the family by coming 
so late, he decided to remain and jumped into a carriage. 

Mechanically, he gave the coachman his old address. When 
the carriage stopped before the door Lucien saw his mistake, 
which made a disagreeable impression upon him. 

While he continued his route, after having repaired his error, 
he looked up at his studio, the weather-stained skylight of 
which made a great shadow on the facade. 

“ I must leave it,” said he; “ but I can have it for four months 
yet, having paid the rent six months in advance.” 

His studio key hung on his bunch with others; he felt it in 
his pocket, with a mixture of indecision and discontent which 
had governed all his actions for some time. 

“ How uncomfortable I was up there!” thought he. 

Raising his eyes again, he saw that Pauline’s windows were 
lighted. 

She tired of the country,” thought he; “ I left her abruptly. 
Poor girl! She was devoted to me! She deserved better treat- 
ment than that.” 

He had forgotten not only Ralboise’s presence near Pauline, 
but even the existence of that beautiful ftllow. 

The carriage stopped before the door, he dismissed the coach- 
man and entered with his key, which he had always kept. 

As the door opened noisily the old cook presented herself, but 
she showed no surprise. 

“ Madame is here,” said she, opening the dining-room door. 

Lucien was surprised. He had not expected to see Annie that 
evening; yet his second thought was pleasant. Alone in that 
house where they had been so happy they would be more free, 
more at their e,ase than even under the eyes of Mme. Orliet. 

The cook went away, Lucien knocked at his wife’s door. 

“ Come in,” said she. 

Seated in a low easy -chair, she was arranging some books in a 
rose-wood case, that she liked. The light of a lamp, standing on 
a tall piece of furniture, shone on her charming face, and the 
pretty disorder of her costume, 


WILD OATS. 


105 


The evening was warm. She had changed her dress for a 
^t^apper — a delictite muslin trimmed with ribbons and lace; and 
/hinking that she would be alone, had left it unbuttoned; it had 
slid from her shoulder and left one of her shoulders bare. 

“ Is it you?” said she with a start, as she saw Lucien enter. 

Then, suddenly, with trembling fingers she tried to button her 
dress. 

“ Annie,” said he, approaching her quickly. 

He was near her, and scarcely knowing what he did, he fell 
upon his knees before the little low chair upon which she was 
seated: he put his arms around her and rested his head upon his 
young wife's shoulder. 

She remained motionless, and he felt her heart beat violently. 

“ Dear Annie, we have had a bad dream,” said he, in a low 
voice, “but there will be a happy awakening. Are you still 
angry with me ?” 

She had not moved: her lowered eyes told no more than her 
closed lips. She felt that this was the decisive moment of her 
life, and she feared to influence the sincerity of her feelings by 
the least show of any will whatever. 

“Tell me that you are no longer angry with me,” pleaded 
Lucien. 

“ I am not angry with you,” said she, slowly. 

“ And you love me still?” 

“Oh! Yes, I love you!” murmured the young wife in a broken 
voice. 

She sobbed. He held her in his arms and covered her charm- 
ing face with the kisses which she endeavored to avoid. 

“Lucien,” said she, “ we were so happy that it made it very 
hard for me to suffer what I did.” 

“ But that is past; you will suffer no more.” 

She put her hand on her heart and gently withdrew from her 
husband’s arms. 

“Yes,” said she, sadly; “I shall suffer still more. I feel it — 
I feel it more when you are here than when you are absent.” 

“ Poor dear!” said Lucien, affected by thoughts of the suffer- 
ing which he had caused. 

After kissing her hands, he kissed her face; she looked at him 
with her eyes full of tears, with an indescribable expression of 
reproach and grief, when he sought her lips. 

“ Oh, no!” said she, with a shudder and a cry of anguish. 

Lucien was amazed. 

“ But you love me still ?” said he, in a wounded tone. 

“ I love you and I forgive you, I am not angry with you; but 
I beg of you, do not embrace me like that.” 

“Why?” 

“It hurts me; it makes me ashamed, I cannot endure it. No, 
Lucien, I assure you, I cannot, it is too much for me.” 

He arose and stood before her, frowning, and with a discon- 
tented air. 

Annie pitied him. She arose also and approached him with 
outstretched arms, with an expression of childlike tenderness. 

“ Do not be angry,” said she, putting her two loving hands on 


106 


WILD OATS, 


her husband’s shoulders. “ Do not look at me like that, I beg of 
you. You know that I have loved you all my life; you know 
that since my birtli I liave had no other friend than you. Do you 
not remember when we were young, and could not live without 
each other? You know that such things cannot be forgotten, 
cannot be effaced. You see now that I shall love you always, 
always, until death!’’ 

Lucien’s eyes flashed as he looked at his wife. He suddenly 
leaned toward her and pressed his lips upon the trembling 
mouth which implored him: 

“ Oh! it is wrong!” said Annie, as she recoiled, and then threw 
herself into an arm-chair at the other end of the room. 

She was very pale and she regarded him almost defiantly. 

Lucien was furious. 

“What does this trifling mean?” said he in a voice that was 
suppressed with anger. “You pretend to love me, and yet you 
play this ridiculous farce. If you love me, you cannot be so 
greatly afraid of me; if you do not love me, why these protesta- 
tions of tenderness? You are no longer a child, you know what 
life is, you have no excuse ” 

She interrupted him. 

“ I am not playing any role,"' said she, in a despairing voice. 
“ I love you with all my heart, and I cherish neither resentment 
nor rancor against you. What I have suffered has made me 
sad, it is true, but t cannot help that; you know it. I wish to 
be a most devoted companion to you. I shall never tliink of 
anything but your happiness. Your tastes and your pleasures 
shall be consulted before mine in every case; but ” 

She stopped; an unconquerable modesty prevented her from 
continuing. 

“But what?” brutally demanded Lucien, who felt that the 
whole happiness of his life lay in that reticence. 

She made a heroic effort and looked at him. 

“ But when I think that you would «peak to other women as 
you have spoken to me, when I think that you have kissed other 
lips, that your arms have held others, I cannot — I swear to you, 
Lucien, I cannot have you near me. It is not my fault. I have 
done all in my power to conquer this feeling. Since your 
return I have tried to reason with myself, to encourage myself. 
Just now, when you entered. I said to myself: ‘If he should 
come, I would love him still!’ And you have come, ard I love 
you with all my soul, and my heart is breaking while I speak 
to you, and yet I cannot! No, no, no, I cannot! It seems to me 
that if I should give you a kiss, I should be forever degraded 
and wretched. That kiss would be a lie, and I have never lied!” 

She stood before him with her head lowered, like a guilty per- 
gor awaiting forgiveness. 

Lucien thought her a hundred times more beautiful and more 
attractive than she had ever been. This woman, who was his, 
who loved him and who repulsed him, drove him to madness. 

“ Listen,” said he to her. “ You are only a child, to speak the 
truth. Do not judge the future that you know nothing about 


WILD OATS. 107 

You have had sorrows, I know that; and there still remains some 
bitterness, that is natural.” 

“No bitterness,” said Annie, gently; “only grief.” 

“Be it so. You have made for yourself I know not what 
false idea of honor, and that is what makes you utter such sense- 
less words. But all that is a chimera, Annie. You love me and 
I love you, that is the truth. What does anything else signify ?” 

He took her gently in his arms as if she were a scolded, weep- 
ing child. 

“ Your true place is here, my beloved wife; we must live and 
die together. Let us live, loving each other, so as to lose noth- 
ing that life can give us of all that is good and pleasant. You 
know how much we have loved each other. We will love each 
other still more.” 

“ Do not speak of that,” said she, disengaging herself. “ That 
is exactly what I wish to forget, and that pursues me and perse- 
cutes me. I tell you truly, Lucien, if I had never been your 
wife I could love you as you wish, I believe so: but between the 
past and the present there is a gulf which I cannot bridge over. 
Just now, this moment, I tried to submit, w^hile your arms 
were around me. But I cannot!” 

Lucien felt himself overcome by a mysterious force. He could 
do nothing against the enemy which arose before him. He 
could undoubtedly assert himself tlie master; but it would be at 
the price of his wife’s contempt. She had spoken of hating him; 
but he knew, that she would despise him, and that would be 
more horrible than all else. Resentment and anger blinded him. 
At that moment, when he had just separated from everything 
for his family; at that hour, when he returned to his home re- 
pentant, full of good intentions, his wife’s attitude placed him 
in a very unpleasant position, and ujwn the poor child he vented 
all the spite which his disagreeable situation had engendered. 

“Then,” said he, feigning to be calm, while he felt his blood 
boiling in his veins, “ it is you who close the door of the conju- 
gal house? Take care! I shall never knock at it again. I swear 
it to you!” 

“Dear Lucien! Can we not live together peacefully, like 
friends, with all the joys of a family, with our child ? If you 
but knew how much 1 love you!” said the young wife, stretch- 
ing her clasped hands toward him, with a gesture of touching 
supplication. 

“ All or nothing!” declared the young man, in a harsh voice. 
“ I will not be restrained in my own house. I will not accept a 
state of things where I cannot do as I please. You declare war 
against me. I leave the responsibility upon you, and I shall do 
nothing to avoid the consequences. As a wife separated from 
her husband, you will follow your own inclinations, until the 
day when something in your conduct displeases me. Upon that 
day 1 shall remember that I am your husband and that you bear 
my name!” 

“ Oh, Lucien,” cried the yoimg wife, crushed under this un- 
deserved threat, 

“You do not wish it, say?” said Lucien, seizing her by the 


108 


WILD OATS. 


wrist. “ You wish to be my wife only in name? You wish to 
live in your foolish pride, which 1 truly cannot understand, and 
which seems such folly? Do you wish that? Are you re- 
solved? Very good. Farew ell then.” 

“ LucienI” her voice was full of entreaty, as she said the word. 

He went to the door without looking back. She took a step to- 
ward him, but a shudder of horror which she well understood, 
passed over her and stopped her. 

He opened the door and closed it without looking at her; she 
slid gently on the carpet, noiselessly, and wept there until 
morning. Sleep came not to restrain her sobs. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

As the fresh air touched his face, Lucien felt like a man who 
has just come out of a mine. 

His temples pained as if they were bound with a band of 
steel, and his lungs were oppressed. 

Mechanically he put his hand in his pocket and found there 
the little bunch of keys which he carried. 

“ It is curious,” said he, bitterly. “ I still have a home and I 
shall not be obliged to go to a hotel.” 

He went toward his studio; it was not late, and the janitor 
sat in a chair, before his door, taking the air. 

“ Good-evening, monsieur,” said he, lecognizing his tenant. 
“ Have you just returned from the country ? Madame came 
back this morning; I thought you would not be very far be- 
hind her.”’ 

“ Madame?” asked Lucien, in a bewildered tone. 

“Hey! Yes — the lady on the third floor,” said the good man, 
winking. “ She has come back. She is at home.” 

“All alone?” asked the young man as all his bad passions 
were aroused. 

“ Faith! With whom would she be ?” replied the janitor, sur- 
prised at the question. 

“ Thank you,” said Lucien. 

He went slowly up-stairs, like a man who hardly knows wliat 
to decide; then, coming to the landing in front of Pauline’s 
door, he made up his mind and rang the bell. 

Pauline opened the door herself. 

By the light from a gas jet which was burning in the hall she 
recognized Romanet. 

“ What! Is it you?” said she. “ You look perfectly used up.” 

She let him in; he closed the door and looked at the young 
woman with more of an expression of curiosity than one of 
anxiety. She appeared surprised but not displeased. 

“What are you doing here, at this hour?” she asked him, 
feeling that a display of dignity would be in place. 

“ I came to see you,” said Lucien, seating himself in an arm- 
chair. “An old friend — you ought not to be surprised at 
that.” 

“ After the way in which you treated me,” cried Pauline, burst- 
ing into tears, 


WILb OATS, 109 

The explanation was satisfactory. The rage that Lucien felt 
against his family made him eloquent. He poured into Pauline’s 
willing ears all his anger against the stupid ties which bound 
him, and the social conventionalities which surrounded him; he 
mentioned neither his wife nor his father, yet he railed with 
pitiless irony against all that makes a man a booby, and de- 
prives him of all independence and dignity. In his fury he 
forgot that he had willingly assumed those ties that he found so 
difficult to break. Pauline looked at him with as much malice 
as pity. 

“ Your family have been reproaching you,” thought she, “and 
you have sent the family flying. Not knowing what to do with 
yourself, you came to me; many thanks! Yet, after all, you are 
worth more than the other one, and since you are your mother's 
heir, you are not to be despised; all the more since that great 
fool of a Ralboise has left me in the lurch in a most unpleasant 
fashion.” 

In fact, that charming young man, who asked nothing better 
than to betray the man who called him his friend, and at whose 
house he dined three or four times a week, had no fancy for 
Pauline free and left upon his hands. Ralboise was one of those 
who would not for the world have a hunting-ground of their 
own, but who were enchanted when they could poach upon the 
reserves of others. Also, after the first show of a feeling too 
openly expressed not to have the appearance of sincerity, the 
amiable fellow was in a tremendous hurry to return to Paris, 
called there by a thousand imperative duties. So that the young 
woman, after having had two lovers, found herself without any 
at all, which brought her back to Paris in a more sad than gay 
state. 

Pauline was not wicked, but, like all women without nobility 
of character, or who had never learnt in childhood to suppress 
their natural instincts, she violently resented all wounds given 
to her vanity, and then she could commit very bad deeds with- 
out any scruples. She was angry with Ralboise for having 
treated her so unceremoniously, and she hoped that an oppor- 
tunity would present itself when she could punish him. 

Lucien had returned lo her. In a fit of dignity she might have 
sent him back to teach him that he could not play thus with the 
feelings of so sensitive a woman as she; but she ran a great 
risk of never seeing him again, while if she gave him a warm 
welcome, she would regain her supremacy, and could annihilate 
the impertinent Ralboise, who had so abruptly discarded her, 
with her contempt. 

With marvelous promptitude she studied all the aspects of 
the question, and when Lucien had poured out his bad humor, 
she made him a little scene of reproach which was half real and 
half affected. She mentioned how quiet she had been under the 
farewell letter that he had written her; she showed him the 
bank-notes that he had sent her, they still were in their envelope. 
She swore that she loved only him, and that shp had intended to 
send back the money the next day. In brief, she overwhelmed tne 
poor boy with so many beautiful sentiments, and above all by 


110 


WILD OATS, 


such tender compassion for his sadness, which his wife’s obdu- 
racy had brought about, that Lucien felt himself appreciated. 

lie, whom spite alone had driven from his home, where his 
wife was at this moment weeping over his ruined life, his lost 
happiness, he persuaded himself that Pauline loved him truly, 
that he had wronged her, and that he owed her much more 
esteem and affection than he had supposed. He went to sleep 
feeling his vanity, consoled and was soothed, like a man who 
feels that at last justice has been done him, and he resolved 
never to allow himself again to be treated like a child. 

He awoke in the same frame of mind; and the hour which fol- 
lowed his awakening confirmed him in his opinion that lie had 
done right. Without speaking to Pauline of his intentions he 
said to himself that his present studio was no longer suited to 
his means, that he would rent another, more suitable one, where 
he could receive his friends and lovers of art. He made no al- 
lusion to his future projects; but the young woman understood 
that she had never had such a hold upon him before. 

With the obstinacy of people who know’ in their hearts that 
they are wrong, but who would not acknowledge it for the 
world, Lucien said to himself that it was his duty to have an un- 
derstanding about his position, instead of accepting a sort of os- 
tracism, as be had done the first time. Deciding to take the in- 
itiative, he went off to Mantes in the morning in order not to 
let his wife, if the same idea should occur to her, have the bene- 
fit of the first impression on the minds of those vrhom he was 
going to brave. 

He went first to Madame Orliet. He wanted to explain to her 
frankly, but he resolved not to admit for a moment that it was 
not Annie who was at fault. 

His mother-in-law was not at home; he learned that he could 
find her at Master Romanet’s, where she had undertaken the 
sad task of arranging all that had belonged to Lucien's mother. 
He would therefore meet both his judges at the same time. 

Upon his entrance, he was w’elcomed with an effusive affection 
that was painful to him. If anything could complicate his po- 
sition and embarrass him it w’as the evidences of love which 
those dear beings bestowed upon him; they were his best friends, 
to whom he knew that he was about to give the most cruel of 
all blows. 

“ Have you come from Paris ? Have you seen Annie ?” asked 
his father, after they had exchanged their first greetings. 

“ I have seen Annie,” replied he in a tone which made Mme. 
Orliet, w’ho was leaning over a drawer filled with receipts, raise 
her head. 

“ She is not ill?” asked Master Romanet, alarmed at the tone of 
his voice. 

Mme. Orliet had not had the same fear: warned as she was by 
the sorrow which her daughter had not tried to conceal from 
her, her mind w’ent directly to the truth, and she saw, by her 
son-in-law’s eyes, that her worst premonitions were not erron- 
eous. 

“ Annie has lost her head,” said Lucien, who, being ill at ease, 


WILD OATS. 


Ill 


exaggerated in his own favor. *‘I do not know what has come 
over her, but her exactions make it wholly impossible for us to 
live together. I have done what I could to make her take a 
right view of things; she does not wish to understand. There- 
fore I have come to tell you, that on account of her absolute re- 
fusal to accord me the only position that I can accept, I refuse 
to live under the same roof with her.” 

“Lucien, you are dreaming!” said master Romanet, in conster- 
nation. 

Madame Orliet looked at the young man with her penetrating, 
intelligent eyes; she understood it all. She understood even the 
anger which had driven him to this resolution, but she felt pow- 
erless to conquer her daughter’s sad determination. AVere she 
in Annie's place, she would have acted just as her daughter did. 

“ I am not dreaming,” Lucien answered, assuming great dig- 
nity. “ You understand, father, that I cannot live in the house 
where my wife calmly proposes to consider me her friend, or 
where every other tie between U3 is broken.” 

“ It is absurd,” cried Master Romanet, loudly. 

“ Exactly,” said Lucien, delighted with his success. “I told 
Annie so; I declared to her that I could not accept that intoler- 
able and ridiculous situation. She will not yield; there was no- 
thing left for me but to withdraw; I have done so, never to re- 
turn.” 

“When have you had time to quarrel like that?” asked the 
notary, dismayed. 

“ Last evening I went home full of good feelings, decided to 
try to win back Annie’s affection. I did not endeavor to ex' 
tenuate my faults, and she told me that she forgave them. Bui 
what she calls forgiveness is only the absence of animosity 
against me; she alleges that her feeling of affection cannot go 
beyond a fraternal friendship. I leave you to judge, father 
w^hether I should submit to such conditions.” 

“ Evidently not,” said Master Romanet, growing more embar- 
rassed than ever. 

Mme. Orliet, who had said nothing, now interrupted him. 

“ From your point of view, as a man,” said she calmly, “ evi- 
dently not; from the point of view of th(i young wife who finds 
herself deserted without having done anything to justify this 
outrage — this misfortune, you would perhaps, be less positive.” 

The perplexed notary looked at his old friend without an- 
swering. Lucien’s eyes flashed with expressive anger; he saw 
an irrefutable antagonist before him, and in his present state of 
mind, he was capable of any cruelty. 

“I have acknowledged my repentance,” said he. “If my 
wife wished to remain angry with me, it would have been more 
frank on her part not to have pretended a forgiveness which in 
reality has no place in her heart.” 

“ You know very well, Lucien, that she has sincerely for- 
given you,” affirmed Mme. Orliet in so serious a voice that 
Lucien dared not reply. 

“ Then,” suggested Master Romanet, “ this is perhaps only ex- 


113 


WILD OATS, 


aggerated pride on the part of the young woman which time 
will soften.” 

Annie’s mother knew in her heart that tliis could never be, 
that such wounds never heal; but she had not the right to take 
her daughter’s future upon herself, and she remained silent. 

“ It does not suit me,” said Lucien, “ to wait my wife’s good 
pleasure. I gave her her choice last evening between my return 
to the conjugal fireside, where I intended to be received as a hus- 
band and not to be merely tolerated, or to lead the independent 
life that she seems to prefer. She did not call rne back; so, from 
this day, I am free, and free by Annie’s own will. That is what 
I wished and what is well understood between us.” 

Master Romanet did not wish to admit this. The interview 
was long and painful, for the three individuals were convinced 
that they were right in the distinct positions they assumed. 
Lucien had skillfully surrounded himself by an impregnable 
wall; all the wrongs fell upon fair Annie, whose mother alone, 
defended her. 

“ You were wrong to leave her,” said M. Romanet to hia 
son. “ Everything could have been arranged in time; but you 
wished to return as a master.” 

“ You would have done the same in my place,” replied Lucien, 
who understood his father’s domineering spirit. 

Finally, finding that they were talking to no purpose, they re-* 
mained silent. 

“I will go to Paris, and live with my daughter,” said Mme. 
Orliet, breaking a painful silence. “ She cannot live alone with 
her child; and, another thing, I cannot have her here with me, 
for that would look as if she had been repudiated by her hus- 
band. She shall live at the house that you have rented, Lucien, 
and it is there that I hope you will one day return, a better 
judge of the delicacy of feelings which I regret that you do not 
understand now.” 

She turned away her head that her son-in-law should not see 
the tears which filled her eyes. The latter bowed gravely, but 
said nothing. At that moment he would have allowed himself 
to be killed rather than cross the threshold of that abhorred 
house. 

“But,” cried Master Romanet, in real despair, “a marriage 
cannot be broken off like that!” 

“This time, father,” replied the young man, “it is not my 
fault.” 

The discussion was prolonged for a long time without any 
result, and Mme. Orliet put an end ro it all by declaring that she 
would go to Paris that very day to join her daughter. The 
notary then agreed with her, trying to convince her that she 
should attempt to make Annie change her mind. 

* “ No,” replied she, “ my daughter has acted according to her 
conscience. I shall not interfere in this controversy, which, it 
seems to me, is wholly between husband and wife.” 

She went away, after warmly pressing the old man’s hand, 
and bowing to Lucien with a gesture which mutely expressed 
her sorrow, perhaps her reproacnes. 


WILD OATS. 113 

“ What are you going to do?” asked Master Rornanet of his 
son when they were alone. 

“ Live as I please,” responded the latter. 

“ You are not going to return to that life in which you made 
60 brilliant a debut ?” asked the notary sharply. 

“Be calm, father,” replied the young man, “ I know how to 
gratify my tastes in a manner that will not give rise to any 
calumny.” 

“ Do you believe that ?” growled Master Romanet. “Do you 
imagine that you can lead an improper life and be forgiven by 
those whom you know ? My son, your last actions will be com- 
mented upon, repeated, and carried from one to another; what 
would appear innocent in another, in you will become criminal 
and ridiculous. All those who led you into follies will be the 
first to cruelly blame you, and your wife, your poor innocent 
wife, will be more badly treated than yourself.” 

“ I cannot help it,” said Lucien coldly. “ She would have it 
so.” 

He was silent as to his projects, only saying that he should 
return to his studio, and that he should remain there until he 
found another. His mother’s fortune, which he had inherited, 
provided him with sufficient money to make him independent of 
any one. His father, then, could no longer threaten him with 
his anger; the young man had no fears on this score. 

Softened by the sorrow which he had just experienced, the 
notary felt need of affection, which lack made him more indul- 
gent than he had been in the past. 

“You will come to see me at least?” asked Master Romanet 
when his soon took leave of him. 

If he had dared he would have begged Lucien to remain to 
dinner. His solitude seemed insupportable; but he felt that 
propriety demanded an appearance of coldness. He was 
furiously angry with his daughter-in-law, whom he thought 
silly and childish, incapable of understanding the feelings that 
she experienced, and still more incapable of being influenced by 
what upset her; he thought that it was all a comedy and that 
were he in his son’s place he would have brought her to reason. 

Lucien preferred to withdraw and put himself upon his dignity. 
How absurd, how wrong was this attitudel As if holding him- 
self aloof on his dignity meant anything in the realities of life. 
As if it did not always end in yielding to the material require- 
ments which moral situations create! 

“At last,” said the notary to himself, “sometime or other 
they will understand each other; those squabbles cannot last 
Wever!” 

Yet his memory, with a sort of malice, suddenly recalled to 
him an old professional case upon which he had spent much 
labor. A young couple had been separated, on account of a 
trifle, like the present case. Both of the married couple were ob- 
stinate, and had said: “ Never, no — never could their rupture be 
healed.” 

The two friends took it up, all means were tried, for they 
were only children. It was labor lost! Everything was in vain. 


114 


WILD OATS. 


Master Romanet^aid that he would keep his eye on his son. 
It was an excellent resolution, but to have an eye on a man of 
his age, and his independent situation was not easy. He dis- 
covered it when he attempted it. 


CHAPTER XX. 

Lucien moved to a house nearer the center of the city, and, as 
might have been predicted, Pauline was installed with him. 

That came about by degrees. The young artist had promised 
himself, when he was getting settled, that his apartments should 
be jrespected, so that his friends could go to see him there; that 
he would put all the appearance of wrong upon his wife, and 
that everybody would be forced to see that he was right. 

These were excellent intentions; but to put them in practice 
was not SQ easy. 

Accustomed all his life to a well-regulated house, presided 
over by an intelligent woman, Lucien was not satisfied wdth the 
services of his housekeeper. He tried to get along with a maid- 
servant; the latter, vexed at not having a kitchen, and conse- 
quently being deprived of what she considered her due per- 
quisites, left him without warning. The young man became 
accustomed to take his meals with Pauline; a few rainy days 
made him feel the inconvenience of that double life. In short, 
one morning, she arrived with her maid and said to him: “ We 
have come to make your breakfast.” 

Lucien was very grateful, and very soon after the two women 
were settled at his house. 

Then Jalbrun was angry. 

Since the events that had led his friend astray so unhappily 
he had been very distant toward him. He had not been told the 
true motives that had separated Annie and her husband when 
he believed that everything had been satisfactorily arranged; 
but he instinctively guessed the cause. 

Lucien no longer spoke of his wife, except in a tone of con- 
centrated bitterness that betrayed much spite. Annie, whom 
Jalbrun occasionally saw, for IVlme. Orliet took care not to 
break the tie which attached them to the object of their con- 
stant thoughts — Annie never spoke of her husband ; but melan- 
choly settled on her charming face, and her erst supple form 
became languid. 

All this indicated a secret sorrow, which appeared light be- 
cause it was not perceptible to others, but which in reality un- 
dermined her life and happiness. 

As long as Lucien maintained appearances of propriety Jal- 
brun did not know how to judge him. 

Without believing him above reproach, he might have thought 
that the young wife was perhaps too severe under the circum- 
stances; but when Pauline was installed as mistress of the 
house, when Lucien himself announced it to his friends, and 
endeavored to conceal his embarrassment under an invitation 
to dinners, the musician gave himself the long-wished-for satis- 
faction of telling the young painter some disagreeable truths, 


WILD OATS, 


115 


During the period of sorrow and poverty through which 
Lucien had just passed Jalbrun had conscientiously refrained 
from any severe language; but when the young painter’s circum- 
stances were so greatly changed the motives for silence no 
longer existed, and Lucien was soon made aware of it. 

“ You can have no home with such a woman,” continued Jal- 
brun, after a long harangue, in which he had vented all his ill- 
humor; “ you cannot voluntarily put yourself beyond the law; 
you cannot obstruct the routes which you wish to travel; you 
should not burden yourself with absurd ties, unless you are a 
fool, and you are not; an honest man does not expose himself to 
everybody’s contempt.” 

“ I will not permit it,” cried Lucien, who had listened to the 
sermon with a weary air, but without daring to rebel. 

“ What will you do? Will you fight? For a Pauline!” 

“ Assuredly.” 

•‘That will be beautiful!” growled Jalbrun, shrugging his 
shoulders. “ Do as you please, but do not invite me to dinner.” 

Lucien found less scrupulous companions. 

Having a very natural feeling to see himself surrounded by 
somebody, he invited all his so-called friends, who were situated 
like himself. He preferred to live with Bohemians rather than 
live alone; the more he felt that he had fallen from his former 
social position, the more he felt a feverish desire to be admired 
or esteemed, even by his inferiors. 

When autumn advanced, and Paris began to put on its win- 
ter garb, slights were multiplied for Lucien. Society ladies 
were the first to show him their disdain. They did not forgive 
that handsome and amiable fellow for deserting respectable 
society. 

Those, perhaps, who wi^uld not have scrupled to destroy 
Annie’s happiness by drawing her husband into an unworthy 
connection, could not find words strong enough to express their 
disgust for the little trip that the young man had taken into the 
“ land of gallantry y 

During the first days of the winter season, when tlie cold 
weather brought bacli: to the public promenade a number of 
newly-married ladies, Lucien suffered the mortification to find 
his bows and salutations unheeded, and sometimes responded to 
with a stare of very marked coldness. Soon the superior class 
of husbands began to allow themselves to be influenced by the 
advice of their better halves. 

A wiser man, one with a better understanding of the ways of 
the world, would have cared little about these greetings. He 
would have said to himself, that after some weeks, some days, 
perhaps, this semblance of disgrace would quickly disappear: 
that a man was never thrown overboard for such a peccadillo, 
and that after all, never having forfeited his honor, he must feel 
himself above these small slights. 

But the situation in which Lucien Romanet found himself 
was new to him. His austere education and his family life had 
made him more severe than the majority of men, more severe 
toward others as well as toward himself. He gave himself a 


116 


WILD OATS, 


reason for it in all his meditations, at the same time that he 
bitterly condemned his conduct. He made Annie responsible 
for everything, voluntarily forgetting that the first unjustifiable 
wrongs had been committed by himself. 

As time went on, the young man’s position became better 
known, and as others became curious about him, he grew ex- 
cessively sensitive and punctilious. He ceased to bow to a num- 
ber of old friends, whose salutations did not appear sufficiently 
cordial to his perverted mode of thinking. 

He was surprised not to receive annual invitations, which had 
never failed to come from a certain number of former friends; 
they were not sent because they would not impose upon Annie, 
whom all agreed to proclaim irreproachable, the gratuitous cru- 
elty of the fear of meeting her husband; therefore the hosts had 
no other resource than to eliminate the husband in order to re- 
ceive Annie. 

“ That is the way they treat me!” he said to himself one day; 
“they put me beyond the bans. It is their way of provoking 
me, and I shall return it; I will hold up my bead to those who 
blame me, and we will see who will be the first to draw back!” 

From this moment, he took a wicked pleasure in going out 
with Pauline; far from avoiding places where he would meet 
his acquaintances, he seemed to seek them: they saw him pass 
with liis head erect, a haughty air, ready to resent the slightest 
mark of contempt. Most of them thought this conduct absurd; 
and as he assumed a marked swagger, he did not elevate him- 
self in public opinion. 

Annie suffered beyond all expression. Tliat proud and sensi- 
tive soul felt her grief increase with each of her husband’s 
follies. Notwithstanding their last sad interview, she still loved 
Lucien, and the more she suffered for that useless, repulsed 
love, the more she felt how impossible it was for her to alter 
her decision. 

Many times she felt inclined to run to the dear, guilty one, 
and say to him: “You know that I love only you; while we are 
separated from each other we shall always suffer; return, re- 
sume your place at the fireside where your child is growing up 
without knowing your face, or the sound of your voice!” 

But the thought that her husband’s arms would surround her, 
that her husband’s lips would touch hers, always inspired her 
with the same inevitable horror; it seemed to the unhappy wife 
more than ever that her modesty, her virtue would veil their 
faces and forsake her, if she opened her arms to her unfaithful 
husband. 

Mme. Orliet understood that timid soul’s secret sorrow. With 
the wisdom of age, with the experience of a woman who, 
going through life stainless herself, had seen much and reflected 
well, she tried to conquer her daughter’s irrepressible repug- 
nance. 

“ Life,” she said to her, “ as you have believed, is not a chain 
of work and joys more or less equally divided; it is a series of 
sacrifices, and often very sad ones. That to which you have 
succumbed is your legitimate pride; it was a cruel blow. You 


WILD OATS. 


IIT 

|md not the courage to endure it. Alastl my daughter, such is 
life. Many other trials are still in reserve for you.” 

“ However cruel they may be;” interrupted the young wife. 
“ they will not lessen my dignity as a true and chaste wife.” 

Mme. Orliet would answer nothing to that; in fact, of all the 
sorrows that a truly pure wife can experience, the most cruel 
are those inflicted by the man whom she has loved, but wliom 
she has learned to love less ardently. But i^ is a sorrow that 
she has to endure in silence, else she robs it of its purity. 
Annie had recoiled from this last sacrifice. She would gladly 
have died for her husband’s happiness, yet she could not live 
with him. 

Though very much petted by her friends, and protected on 
all sides by the presence of her mother, Annie made only visits 
that were unavoidable. 

The thought of seeing curious persons staring at her, of hav- 
ing to reply to apparently innocent questions, yet prompted by 
inquisitiveness, made her timid, and she suffered from the 
depths of her soul. 

Yet she went out every day, generally,. accompanied by her 
mother. She did not receive gentlemen’s visits. The mourning 
that Annie wore for her mother-in-law explained the seclusion 
behind which she intrenched herself to avoid ihe curious. 
Master Romanet came once a week to see his granddaughter, 
whom he loved to adoration. The conversation was not lively 
between these three, who were rendered so very unhappy by the 
faults of another, and without the presence of the child, whose 
pretty babbling brought joy and the freshness of youth to the 
sad fireside, they would have spent most of tiieir time in silent 
tears. 

The day after the catastrophe, Annie had said, thinking of the 
guilty father: 

“ I will send the child to him.” 

But this dream of the unhappy mother, this hope to reunite 
the two families through the innocent hands of her little 
daughter, had been rudely broken by the installation of Pauline 
in Lucien’s house. Annie shuddered at the very thought of ex- 
posing Louisette to the gaze of that woman who had taken her 
place at her husband’s fireside. 

Many tears had flowed from the young wife’s eyes when Jal- 
brun had said to her, shaking his head: 

“No, dear madame, do not send your daughter; that is im- 
possible now.” 

That was enough to let her know the change that had closed 
the door of the father’s house to his child. At this new sorrow 
Annie was overcome; but she concealed her anguish in her 
broken heart. 

Mantes, the island, the Romanet orchard, the wedding morn- 
ing — all were in the far-distant past; they were no longer in the 
gilded mist of a happy past; the tender vision now floated on 
the surface of a dark stream, which carried them into stormy 
waves, like the pale ghosts of the drowned w^hich sink to the 
bottom of the waters, dead and lamented forever. 


118 


WILD OArS>, 


She was a widow — worse than a widow! Widows weep, and 
everybody condoles with their grief; they have the right to 
wear mourning; curiosity does not trouble itself with their des- 
tiny; it would seem that the sad end of their marriage is under- 
stood by society, which leaves them comparatively alone. But 
Annie always felt that malevolent looks were fixed upon her; 
she questioned the slightest expression of her face; her persist- 
ent sadness would one day be called hypocrisy, and even her 
resignation, if she should ever appear calm, would be considered 
as the gayety of a woman who has retorted in kind. 

Annie knew all that; but worldly thoughts had no effect upon 
her, in the face of her ruined happiness; she would have wished 
for death, but for her daughter. The sense of her duty sus- 
tained her; she lived, but her life was as secluded as possible. 

One day in December she went out, with her child in its 
nurse’s arms, to a large shop filled with toys, where she had 
made some purchases. The little one laughed and prattled to a 
little lamb, made of white wool, which she held in fond em- 
brace to her rosy face. 

Annie looked at her, smiling in her joy the sad smile that had 
become her ordinary expression, when with an instinctive 
movement she turned her head and looked before her. 

In the midst of this crowd of people, whose movements had 
suddenly stopped the circulation, un«ler the arcades of the Rue 
de Rivoli, leaning against a pillar to maintain his position, 
Lucien saw her and his child. 

Annie trembled from head to foot and remained motionless, 
only moved from her place by the crowd which jostled her. 

The look which he gave the child Annie had not seen since — 
oh, such a long time since — standing before the cradle when the 
child was first born! She well understood that long look of 
tenderness! Only formerly he smiled, and now he was filled 
with unspeakable regrets. 

That was her husband; she bore his name; he had hei‘ heart; 
he was her whole life. She wept for him every da}', every night, 
every hour. What would be sweeter or easier than to goto him 
with her child in her arms and say to him: “ Come home.” 

She had suffered so much. She loved him so much that at 
this moment everything seemed easy to her at the sight of her 
husband. The feelings that she had struggled against for months 
were scattered, annihilated. Nothing was changed in her but 
her fictitious strength. She knew that she would suffer, that 
the inevitable shudder would seize her again, that her uncon- 
querable horror could not be overcome; but she was ready to 
endure all these torments for the joy of seeing him again at his 
empty, deserted fireside. He was her friend, her husband, her 
Lucien, her childhood’s companion, the betrothed of her youth, 
the father of her daughter, the being in whom she had concen- 
trated all her joys, her thoughts, her grief and her hopes. 

Not knowing that she saw him, Lucien turned his eyes toward 
her and trembled. How much slie read in those eyes that she 
loved! There was still a little wounded pride, but mingled with 
it there was so much tenderness that she grasped the nurse by 


WILD OATS, 119 

the arm and made a step to break through the crowd and go to 
him. 

At the same moment Pauline came out of a shop, and rapidly 
going up to the young man said something to him, then entered 
the carriage which awaited them. Lucien looked at his wife 
ready to go to her; at that moment he would have renounced 
everything for her. 

But Annie had just received a new blow to her eternally re- 
newed wound; at the sight of Pauline her eyes fell and she 
stopped. Lucien turned his head, entered the carriage whereto 
Pauline impatiently called him, and Annie returned silently to 
her lonely home. 

In the evening a great basket filled with playthings arrived for 
Louisette. While the child uttered cries of joy at each new 
surprise, Mme. Orliet and Annie avoided looking at each other. 
Warm tears fell on their hands as they took the toys from the 
basket, and as they simultaneously raised their heads they en- 
deavored to conceal those tears from each other. 

“Who sent this to Louisette?” said Annie, as a sob trembled 
in her voice. 

“ Mamma,” said the little girl, delightedly throwing a kiss 
with her little dimpled hand. 

“ No, papa sent it,” said the young wife. “ Send a kiss to 
papa.” 

The child looked wonderingly around her, and not knowu'ng to 
whom to address her thanks she threw a handful of kisses to the 
basket which had contained so many beautiful things. Annie 
fled into her room to w'eep alone. 

That same night, Jalbrun, who had been to the first represen- 
tation of a new opera, returned home humming the airs that he 
had just heard, and which he found very easy to remember, 
when he was very much surprised to find the door of his domicile 
open. 

“ It is I,” said Lucien, lighting his way with a candle which he 
held in his hand. “ I made the janitor give me the key, and I 
have been waiting for you for an hour. I must speak to you this 
evening.” 

Jalbrun, who w^as always calm, took care to shut the door and 
to go into his sleeping-room before questioning his friend, who 
followed him. 

“ Has anything happened to your family?” he then asked. 

“No, nothing.” 

Eomanet seated himself upon a chair and looked his friend 
straight in the eye, like a man determined to go to the fouudation 
of things. Jalbrun became very serious, and mechanically 
tapped on the table between them the march in the opera that 
he had just heard. Then he suddenly stopped and said abruptly; 

“ You have some bad affair on your hands?” 

Lucien nodded aflirmatively. 

“ A quarrel?” 

The young painter repeated the same gesture. 

“ It is necessary to arrange it ?” 

“ No,” replied Lucien, curtly, “ I will fight,” 


120 


WILD OATS, 


Jalbrun said nothing, and began again to hum his march. 

“ Whom ?” asked he after a moment. 

“ Ralboise.” 

The musician arose so suddenly that the candlestick nearly 
overturned. 

“ That imbecile! but, my dear fellow, you must not fight a 
fool, if you have any courage, and — the deuce — you are no 
longer a child!” 

“ I am going to fight,” said Lucien, in a calm tone, “ Ralboise 
or somebody; I said to myself that I would fight with the first 
person who looked disparagingly at me. It happened to be Ral- 
boise, so much the worse for him.” 

Jalbruij sat down again. The day that he had gone to take 
Lucien to his mother, leaving Ralboise master of the situation 
with Pauline, flashed through his mind; he believed that it 
would be possible to compromise the affair. 

“What motive have you for fighting?” asked he, feeling that 
it would be difficult to arrange a quarrel that he knew nothing 
about. 

“ It is very simple,” commenced Lucien. 

Under the scrutinizing eye of his friend he found that it was 
not so simple as he had at first believed; certain things were not 
so easy to tell this great, positive fellow, who could easily dis- 
tinguish truth from falsehood. He at once launched out with 
bis story. 

“ I went to the Folies-Begere,” said he, “ and I had Pauline 
w’ith me.” 

“ IVIistake number one,” said Jalbrun. “You should not go 
out with Pauline. Goon.” 

“ Well,” said Lucien, nervously, “ right or wrong, I had 
Pauline there. For an hour everything went well; then Ralboise 
came within a few steps from us. Pauline says that she bowed 
to him and that he did not retimn her salutation.” 

“ There was no great harm in that,” observed Jalbrun, philo- 
sophically. “ If Pauline should bow to all the men whom she 
knows, she would find that not all of them would return her 
greeting.” 

“Then she told me of it, and it annoyed me, you understand; 
I had a woman on my arm; I wished to have her respected ” 

“ A profound error in this case,” replied Jalbrun; “but that 
is nothing new; go on again.” 

“Well, after a few minutes I found that Ralboise was talking 
about me to some of his friends with him; people whom I did 
not know; he was ridiculing me, that was evident, and Pauline, 
too, that was equally evident; at last I felt my blood boil. 
Pauline, who noticed this, said to me: ‘Let us go;' then that 
imbecile looked me full in the face and laughed. I have had 
enough of it; of people treating me coolly, of men laugliing at 
me, of men meddling with my affairs in that style,” continued 
Lucien vehemently. “ I wish to do as I please without com- 
ments from anybody.” 

“You will find that difficult,” thought Jalbrun; but he said 


WILD OATS. 121 

nothing, not wishing to exasperate his friend, who waa already 
over-irritated. 

“ 1 went straight to Ralboise, and I asked him why he laughed. 
He told me that it was none of my business; some words passed 
between us, and at last I threw my card in his face.” 

“All this, because Pauline was vexed because he did not bow 
to her,” said Jalbrun. “ Your time is well spent, and you hav^e 
decided what will follow ?” 

“Absolutely.” 

“ Do you know that it is not worth while ?” 

“I know it is worth while,” replied Romanet, very much iri- 
tated. “If you do not wish to aid me, you need only to say so.” 

Jalbrun vainly tried to reason with his irascible friend; Lucien 
was aggravated to that degree that remonstrances were useless. 
He had evidently taken it into his head tliat he would fight, and 
he could not be dissuaded. 

“After all,” thought the musician, “perhaps it would be best; 
in some way or other his senses will return to him afterward, 
while now it would be lost time to talk to him; and besides, 
Lucien is a good swordsman; the otlier one does not amount to 
much, and if there is, as they say, really a special Providence for 
children,- He will take my young friend under His particular 
protection.” 

“ Can you keep me here?” asked Lucien, after they had made 
arrangements for the next day. “I have not the slightest wish 
to go back to my own house, and I have no particular wish to go 
to a hotel.” 

“ Take my bed,” said Jalbrun. “lam accustomed to sleep- 
ing on my sofa, and let us go to sleep at once, for it is very late, 
and we shall have enough to do to-morrow morning.” 

Neither of them slept much; unpleasant thoughts crowded 
and whirled about their brains and kept them awake. They 
were up at daybreak ready for the day’s disagreeable work. 

“ If you would follow my advice,” said Jalbrun to his friend, 
“you would go to see your father; that will please the good 
man, and at the same time you will not be here to be annoyed 
by my goings and comings. I suppose you have sense enough 
not to allow Master Romanet to find out that you have a duel 
upon your hands?” 

“ Rest assured,” said Romanet, “ he will never suspect it.” 

“ Ah, well, let us go out at once. I will take you to the Saint 
Lazare Station, and we will take a cup of chocolate while wait- 
ing for the train.” 

They went out immediately. Jalbrun had hurried his friend 
out of doors thus for reasons which were justified by events, for 
less than an hour after, when he entered his apartments, he 
found Pauline awaiting him in the janitor’s room. 

“ Where is Lucien ?” she asked him in a tragic tone. 

“ In the country,” he replied, calmly. “ If you wish to talk 
with me, let us go to your house; this is not the proper place for 
private conversation ” 

This coolness acted as a shower-bath might. The young 
woman followed him quietly. When they arrived at Lucien’s 


122 


WILD OATS, 


studio, the musician seated himself upon the sofa and signed to 
Pauline to take an easy-chair. 

“You wished to play your little tragedy,” said he, “and 
until now you have succeeded very well; but have you never 
thought that Lucien would get tired of all that, tell me ? It 
bothers you because that beauty of aRalboise jilted you.^ You 
wish to revenge yourself, and as a w^omen cannot obtain the 
small pleasure of vengeance unaided, you use my friend to draw 
your chestnuts out of the fire! Very well planned! but you 
have not reflected upon the consequences.” 

Pauline listened to him impatiently. 

“Where is Lucien?” she asked, a second time. 

“ I told you that he is in the country,” said Jalbrun, very 
calmly. 

“Will he return here this evening?” 

“ No.” 

“When?” 

“ I know absolutely nothing about it,” replied the artist in the 
same calm tone, “ and very probp,bly he knows no more about it 
than 1 do. These things are never settled until the last minute.” 

“Is he going to fight?” cried Pauline, with a grand, tragic ^ 
gesture. 

“ Do not pretend to be astonished! Have you not been trying 
to drive him to it with all your might? It would amuse you 
very much to have a man like Romanet get a hole in his body for 
a woman like you. That is what you set out to do! But, be 
assured, we shall do our best to keep him from fighting. It is all 
the same to you, that a courageous man may be killed, or crip- 
pled for life; after him you would find another; but we, who 
love him, we are here to repair your work, and we shall do our 
best to do it. Keep yourself calm, and above all I advise you 
not to create any further scandal.” 

But I love him!” cried Pauline, who began to weep in thor- 
ough earnest. 

“ You love him, and you deceived him with Ralboise.” 

“ But he had abandoned me!’ 

“You knew nothing about it!” 

“ At least,” said she, in the midst of her tears, “ let me know 
what has become of him, do not leave me without any news of 
him.” 

Jalbrun was moved. 

“ Very well!” said he, “ you shall hear of him to-morrow.” 

Without adding another word, he ran rapidly down-stairs, and 
went to rejoin one of his friends who was also one of Lucien’s, 
and of whom he knew he could ask the favor of being a second 
in this affair. 

Ralboise was wholly dazed by this adventure. Accustomed to 
go through his life without annoying others, sure of pleasing 
the ladies because he was handsome, and treated as a comrade 
by many men because he was nobody, he never imagined for a 
moment that anybody could find anything to condemn in his 
conduct. 

The evening before he had ridiculed Pauline much more than 


WILD OATS. 


12B 


Lucien, though the latter came in for his share. He had turned 
up his nose at the assault of the young painter, as any one else 
would have done in his place: but he was greatly surprised to 
receive his adversary’s card, for, to his mind, the quarrel was so 
slight a one that it could have been easily aiTanged in words. 

When he found himself face to face with a challenge, Ralboise 
felt a little sheepish at first and then very proud of it. A 
challenge! That was an advance in life; he believed perfectly 
that this would be a duel without consequences, the seconds 
being there on purpose to prevent everything which would not 
be absolutely indispensable to honor — or, it were better to say, 
to appearances. 

Lucien had decided otherwise. Unnerved by the many petty 
slights to which he had been subjected since autumn, lie did not 
mean to have his duel cause any ridicule, and he had charged 
Jalbrun to demand either ample apologies or a serious repara- 
tion. 

When Ralboise found what they demanded of him, his vanity 
was touched, and he became more exacting even than Lucien. 
He was not a very intelligent man, but he was not a coward, 
and he proved it. 

“ M. Romanet assaulted me without any real motive,” said he, 
“ and I expect that he will give me satisfaction.” 

The two adversaries being both greatly exasperated, it was 
necessary to arrange the preliminaries for a meeting. Ralboise 
chose the sword, because he was rot a skillful shot. “The 
wounds from a sword,” thought he, “ are seldom mortal, while 
a pistol-shot will break your head before you will have time to 
see it come.’ He was willing, for the honor of this duel, to run 
the risk of being wounded and spending six months in bed; but 
he had not the least desire to be killed on the spot — and really, 
it cannot be said that he was wrong. 

The meeting was fixed for seven o’clock the next morning, in 
an avenue of the Park Saint Cloud, a deserted spot at this season 
of the year, especially so early in the morning; and Jalbrun 
returned home as contented as a man could be who had 
unwillingly accomplished a task that was as foolish as it was 
disagreeable. 

Lucien had not remained with liis father all this time. The 
latter was delighted to see him, ordered the best breakfast that 
could be served at such short notice, and they seated themselves 
opposite each other in the large dining-room, under the old 
clock, which sang with the same tick-tick to the sad as well as the 
happy hours that passed there. 

During the repast, which the notary tried to make as cheerful 
as possible, so that his son might be pleased with his welcome 
and would wish to come again, Lucien recalled the memories 
of his childhood and his youth. 

He seemed to see himself a child again, seated in his high 
chair near his mother, she at that time young and pretty, and 
always — oh, yes! always so good! She always spoke to him 
gently, even when he was in one of his most violent fits of 
temper. 


124 


WILD OATS. 


Sbe concealed his faults from his father, whose frowns made 
the domestic Olympus tremble. The too indulgent mother, 
with her inexhaustible treasure of sympathetic goodness, often 
concealed what she should have revealed — but she was so afraid 
of the master! 

Lucien also recalled himself later on, when he was a youth 
wearing a large white turned -down collar over a velvet vest. 
He was tall and slim, idle about learning his lessons, but fond 
of taking long walks on the island and in the vicinity; this was 
the period in which he too well remembered his father’s thun- 
dering voice. 

Many times he had been sent away from the family table, and 
been condemned to long punishments. Often, after every one 
had left the table, Mme. Romanet had surreptitiously taken 
some dessert, which the father had forbidden, to her condemned 
son. Poor, good mother, perhaps it would have been better for 
the adored child, if he had been strictly submitted to the pater- 
nal discipline. 

Between maternal indulgence, and the notary’s severity, 
Lucien bad made a line of conduct for himself, which leaned 
more toward indulgence than to severity. The great respect 
which he had for his father forbade him to show that he thought 
him in the wrong; but his mother’s approval appeared to him 
the ideal, the end to strive for — paradise. 

He saw things differently now, and found those extremes, 
between which his childhood had been ^tossed, equally dan- 
gerous. 

One vision, above all others, arose before him while he list- 
ened to his father, who was talking about other things. He had 
been punished one Christmas- eve, and his obstinacy had pro- 
longed the punishment beyond its usual limits. Annie had 
come — she was quite small then — with her darling face sur- 
rounded by golden hair, upon which the lamp-light threw fan- 
tastic shadows, and seeing him in disgrace, he whom she loved 
most after her mother, she had wept so much that her innocent 
tears softened the equally obstinate liearts of the father and of 
the son. At the same moment that Lucien, conquered, hurried 
toward his father, the notary, much affected, said to him: “I 
forgive you!” 

They wept much around the table that Christmas-eve; but 
they were easy and happy tears of relief, whose memory left 
nothing painful in those pure and indulgent souls. 

In a few days would come the annivei*sary of that evening, 
but they would come to the ruins of that old happiness. 

Later, it was still Annie — always Annie! 

Lucien was impatient. She was woven in all the acts of his 
life— could he not forget her a moment ? And while his father, 
deceived by his gesture of impatience, ordered more wood put 
upon the fire, thinking that he was cold, the young man thought 
of the next morning, when the chill fog of a December day fall- 
ing on his naked shoulders, would make him shudder more pain- 
fully than he would dare to express, for fear that he would be 
adjudged a coward. 


WILD OATS. 


125 


Until now this duel had appeared to him something desirable 
and necessary — a sort of formality that must be accomplished in 
order to settle his accounts with society, which he believed had 
slighted him. Suddenly he saw it in its true light. A duel for 
a questionable cause, originating in a place of doubtful respecta- 
bility, with a worthless adversary, where he risked his life — for 
what? He no longer knew now that he had persuaded himself 
that things could not terminate otherwise. 

And if he should be killed, what would become of Annie? 

No; he would not think of Annie. All at once he thought of 
his daughter. Poor darlingl How pretty she was in her white 
furs — dainty swansdown floating between heaven and earth in 
the arms of her nurse. She had attracted his gaze, as an artist, 
by her extreme elegance, and he bad recognized her only after 
he saw Annie. 

Breakfast was over; his father handed him his cigar-box; he 
dived into the box, and then plunged into a grand discussion 
upon art. Master Romanet listened with the involuntary ad- 
miration that we always feel for any one who talks eloquently 
upon a subject about which we know absolutely nothing. After 
an hour, Lucien arose. 

“Are j^ou going back to Paris so soon?” asked the father, 
rather sorrowfully. “ You have plenty of time; there is no train 
for an hour yet.” 

“ I wish to take a walk aroimd the island,” said Lucien. “ I 
wish to refresh my memory for a landscape.” 

He embraced his father! When he crossed the threshold the 
notary, hesitating, stopped him. 

“ Is it long since you have seen your wife ?” asked he in alow, 
almost timid voice. 

“ Yesterday,” answered Lucien curtly. “ I met her with the 
little one.” 

“ Did you speak to her?” 

“No! I sent them some toys last night.” 

Master Romanet’s face brightened and he warmly pressed his 
son’s hand; the latter felt a sudden and ardent desire to press 
his father to his heart. 

What if he should never seen him a^ain! He dared not; he 
was strongly affected, and he was afraid that if he should yield, 
he would be no longer master of himself. He descended the two 
steps of the veranda, and turned around to see once more the 
face that he ve: erated — the door was closed. 

Lucien went to the island, which seemed this cold December 
day a mass of dark fog mingled with the river. The crows flew 
in flocks above the cathedral, casting heavy and ungraceful 
shadows on the opaque sky. While he was walking the music 
of the last words that he said to his father sounded in his ears 
like a monotonous chant: “ I sent them some toys last night.” 

His imagination presented to him the scene just as it had really 
taken place; the little one’s delight on seeing so many beautiful 
unexpected things coming out of the basket, her joyful cries, 
her laughter which showed her rows of pearly white teeth. 
Doubtlessly she had selected some toy that pleased her and taken 


126 WILD OATS. 

it with her to her little white bed and slept with it against her 
pretty cheek. 

He saw again his daughter sleeping, all rosy and very serious, 
for when she slept her expression was very grave, and he sud- 
denly recollected that at that very hour he was quarreling with 
Ralboise. 

What a contrast between the two sad women, mother and 
grandmother, seated near a cradle, and the manner in which he 
had spent his evening! 

All that was good in him made him despise himself. The 
truth, suppressed for a long time under much sophistry, now 
arose before him and blinded him. 

What! He had not had the patience to wait till his wife could 
learn to respect him again! He had never had the idea to try to 
conquer this too delicate and tender heart! Returning home, he 
wished to enter there as the master, with a flourish of trumpets 
announcing his grand victory; not once had he thought to say 
to himself that wounds such as he had inflicted needed time in 
which to heal. 

No! he was willing to confess that he had done wrong; but he 
did not wish that he should be made to feel it; he, alone, should 
be the judge as to the limits of his repentance, and he expected 
that this repentance would be welcomed with open arms, like the 
repentance of a king, not that of a criminal. 

Lucien walked under the tall trees on the island, and the arch 
of the interlaced branches formed an immense roof above him, 
like the nave of a church; at the end of the avenue the fog, 
which bordered the horizon, resembled a wall of cotton batting. 

All his past life came up before him full of small and great 
faults, in which he had indulged himself, and it was with inde- 
scribable bitterness that bethought of the next morning, the only 
future upon which he could build any plan. 

“ If I should be killed,” said he, “it will be only what I well 
deserve. Annie will soon And a husband more worthy of her 
than I, and that will not be difficult!” 

But even Avhile thinking thus, he felt that Annie would never 
be consoled, and that she would never take off her mourning for 
her unworthy husband. 

As he approached the end of the avenue, a ray of sunshine 
suddenly glittered through the fog, to which it gave a golden 
transparency; the fog lifted, the water appeared green and calm, 
flowing smoothly, and the icy country wore a peaceful air. 
Lucien’s soul was melted, and his bitterness changed to a feeling 
that was more tender than sad. 

“ Whatever may happen,” said he, “ 1 am resigned to it. But 
if I come out alive from this trial which I have so foolishly 
brought upon myself, Annie must forgive me, and this time I 
will deserve it.” 

He returned hastily to the town, ordered a superb bouquet to 
be placed upon his mother’s tomb, which he dared not visit for 
fear of too much agitation, and then went toward the station. 

He arrived there at the same time as the train ; he hurried^ 
pto one of the carriages and returned to P^ris, 


MTL7) OAT^. 


127 


Early the next morning, Jalbriin, who had not closed his eyes, 
went to the bed which his friend occupied and was surprised to 
find him sleeping so soundly. Romanet’s handsome face wore 
a peaceful expression that he had not seen there for a long 
time. 

All trace of care, of anxiety, and of discontent had disappeared 
from those expressive lines, as well as the premature folds and 
wrinkles which his bad passions had traced there. 

“ It is a pity to awaken him,” thought Jalbrun; “ he sleeps so 
comfortably!” 

But time was passing. He lightly touched the sleeper’s hand 
which was (Extended over the covers, and the latter immediately 
opened his eyes. 

“I was dreaming that I was at Arcachon,” said he, with a 
smile; then, awakening to reality: “ Five o’clock?” said he, “ let 
us hurry.” 

His second was walking up and down the street before the 
door, trying to keep himself warm. They entered a carriage 
which they found by the light of its lanterns through the in- 
tense fog, and drove rapidly to the rear of the park of Saint 
Cloud. 

The fog lifted for a moment only to fall again, cold, and, one 
might say, massive; it was so heavy and so icy. 

“You can never fight in such weather,” said the second. 
“You might unintentionally put out each other’s eyes!” 

Lucien suppressed an impatient gesture. Whatever the danger, 
he was going to fight that day; he was very resolute. 

At last they arrived in an open space, a large lawn, enlivened 
in summer by handsome toilets and elegant umbrellas, but at 
this hour it was as deserted as a peak of the Andes. The rumbl- 
ing of another carriage, while they were alighting, warned them 
that they had not long to wait. 

Day was dawning, as much as it could dawn in such weather. 
The adversaries tried in vain not to look at each other, but their 
eyes involuntarily met. Ralboise asked himself what imperious 
motive had led them to this icy enclosure, and answered himself 
that the necessity of giving or receiving a sword thrust was by 
no means so evident to him as it was the preceding evening. 

Yet, when, upon Jalbrun’s proposition, an offer of reconcilia- 
tion was tendered, the beautiful fellow answered by a very firm 
“ No!” as also did Lucien. The latter had at least the advantage 
of having provoked the quarrel and knew why he fought: and 
yet, if he had the same thing to do over again, he would not 
have been there at that moment. 

No one but Lucien thought that the encounter would lead to 
serious consequences: Ralboise bargained for a slight scratch, 
and the seconds had decided upon the indispensable minimum 
of a play at duelling. 

Some minutes passed before they could begin; a heavy fog was 
settled on the enclosure, and although the actors of this little 
drama could see each other distinctly, they were not inclined to 
subject themselves to any more serious damage than coul4 be 
avoided, 


128 


WILD OATS. 


At last the fog cleared away a little, leaving a clear space of 
fifty yards or more, and the signal was given. 

It was evident that Ralboise was awkward. Lucien, who visi- 
bly spared him, because of pity for his inexperience, was not 
under as great self-control as he wished to be before the hazard- 
ous movements against which he had to defend himself. They 
parried blows for some minutes, when a perfidious almost black 
cloud arose and enveloped them in a second. The seconds ap- 
proached to separate them; but at the same moment Ralboise 
said feebly: “Struck!” 

He was slightly wounded in his right arm, for a thin stream 
of blood flowed from his wound into the palm of his hand. 

Jalbrun, anxious, he knew not why, ran to Lucien, who had 
said nothing since he took his arm, in the dense fog. He heard 
his friend say to him, in a voice which seemed that of a dying 
man: 

“ Do not touch me ” 

The fog surrounded them, while, full of horrible fears, Jal- 
brun was dazed; he saw a bloody hole in his friend’s chest, who 
smiled at him with infinite sweetness. 

“Seriously?” demanded Jalbrun of the surgeon who accom- 
panied them. 

“We will see when we get him home,” evasively replied the 
latter. 

“ Is it possible that I should have wounded him to that ex- 
tent?” cried Ralboise, sorrowfully. “ I did not do it intentional- 
ly, I assure you.” 

Lucien, who visibly lost strength, could not help laughing at 
the frank declaration, and a stream of blood poured out of his 
wound; he lost consciousness and was promptly taken to the 
carriage, where the surgeon bandaged him temporarily, aided by 
Jalbrun, whose hands were as skillful as those of a woman. 

“Where do you wish to go?” asked the coachman, bending 
towards the caiviage door. 

“ Boulevard Malesherbes,” replied the musician. 

The second opened his eyes wide. 

“ But he does not live with his wife ?” 

“ All the more reason,” replied Jalbrun, laconically. 

The return was long and painful. Lucien returned to con- 
sciousness, but his pallor proved that he had been wounded se- 
riously, though he tried to smile to his friends. 

About ten o’clock the carriage stopped before the door of the 
little mansion in which so many happy days had been spent. 
Jalbrun alighted and rang the bell. He did not know how the 
news that he brought would be received, and yet, for a king- 
dom, he would not have taken his friend elsewhere. 

Having sent in his name he was conducted to Mme. Orliet, 
who could not understand this early visit; but time pressed — he 
did not stop for warnings; besides, he knew that with Annie’s 
mother he could go straight to the point. 

“ Your son-in-law has had a hand in an unfortunate affair,’’ 
said he, “ and he has had to submit to the consequences,” 

Is he going to fight?” asked Mme. Orliet, 


WILD OATS. 


m 

“ He has fought,” replied the musician. 

“ Wounded ? — dangerously ?” 

“ Wounded, but not mortally.” 

Annie entered at this word, and stood still, as white as death; 
she had heard Jalbrun’s last word, and had guessed the rest. 

“ Lucien ?” said she. “ Where is he ?” 

“ At your door.” 

The young wife ran toward the vestibule. Jalbrun joined her 
and stopped her. 

“Spare him the agitation of your presence,” said he; “you 
shall see him soon.” 

Annie stopped. 

“ Do what is best,” said she. 

Jalbrun disappeared immediately. 

After a few minutes, which seemed an eternity to the two 
women as they remained motionless and mute, Lucien appeared, 
standing on the threshold. He had insisted upon walking, and, 
as he was obstinate, he had succeeded in overcoming his friend’s 
objections. 

He endeavored to speak, he tried to smile; but he again be 
came unTOnscious, and his friends took him in their arms and 
carried him into Annie’s room, where the bed was all ready foi 
him. 

When he reopened his eyes his wife was at his side, and he 
read in her looks such intense tenderness and forgiveness that 
he could not endure it. 

“ You know ” said he. 

She put her finger on her lips. 

“ But I will speak,” said he, with an effort. “It is necessary 
that you should know the truth, or I shall go away from here. If 
I had known that they were bringing me here, I should have re- 
fused to come.” 

“ I beg of you, ’’ said Annie, as she restrained her tears with 
great difficulty, “ not to talk, and above all not of such things.” 

“ Listen,” cried Lucien, still clinging to his idea, for he felt 
that his weakness was returning, “you know that I have been 
fighting on account of a woman?” 

“ Yes,” said she. “ That is nothing to me.” 

“ Then it is well,” said Lucien, as he closed his eyes and said 
no more. He became unconscious, and for several hours he 
thought himself a wreck tossed from wave to wave by a tempest 
which nothing could calm. 

The wound was serious, as are those which awkward antago- 
nists usually give. Day after day he remained as Annie now 
saw him; pale, the shadow of his long lashes increased by the 
purple tint which remained gathered about the hollow, closed 
eyes; his cheeks red with fever, his lips dry and burning, his 
mind wandering in a delirium in which the young wife’s name 
was often spoken, sometimes pronounced with furious anger, 
but oftener said with a tearful tenderness. 

During the dong hours that she passed seated near that tragic 
couch, Annie examined the depths of her conscience. Whatever 
subtile reasoning she used to conceal the truth, she could not ac- 


m 


WILT) OATS, 


knowledge to herself that she was wrong. Her open soul could 
not resort to a subterfuge, and her pride had revolted before the 
passive obedience of a slave, wliich her husband had exacted. 

To-day, though this loyal conscience had not changed, she ac- 
cepted another ideal of duty; she did not say to herself: “I 
should have yielded,” but she said — “ I ought to have kept him.” 
The confession of her husband, who perliaps was dying, and 
would not allow himself to be brought to his own house without 
having told her the cause wJiich led him there in that condition, 
this cry forced from Lucien, who did not wish to be welcomed 
compassionately, but who first wished to obtain forgiveness 
without any conditions, had broken her pride. 

“ It was really I who led him to do all that!” she said to her- 
self; “ and yet I was not wrong.” 

Alas! if life brought us only the responsibilities of faults com- 
mitted by ourselves; if it punished us only for our own errors, 
we should not suffer so much nor so cruelly. 

Annie thus reproached herself, and felt that though she was 
not wrong she deserved reproaches. 

What would have become of her if they had brought Lucien 
home dead; dead without her having given him a tender word ? 
She thought of this with terror, and the idea that he might go 
away again ; away from their home, leaving there a wife 
without a husband, a child without a father, produced untold 
anguish in Annie. 

“Ah,” said she, “let him remain that I may love him, see 
him live again, and at last make him happy ! I do not ask 
anything more; oh, no, not anything more. How miserably 
selfish I shall be if I do not throw myself and my happiness at 
his feet.” 

While Annie saw these fioating shadows of uncertain life on 
her husband’s face Jalbrun had gone to Mantes to break the 
news to Master Romanet. 

The anger of the latter first vented itself upon the good fel- 
low who rendered him this service. 

“ What?” cried he, “you, a man, a frivolous man, to be sure, 
but yet a sensible man, you did not prevent that? It was your 
duty to warn me; I would have spoken to my son, as he de- 
served, and I would have prevented this misfortune ! If the 
wound is mortal, monsieur, you will be responsible for it !” 

“ I am willing to be,” said Jalbrun; “ but, monsieur, you can 
tell me all this by and by, if you wish, and I will listen to you 
submissively, I assure you that I will. For the present, you 
must go to Lucien, and above all do not give him any useless 
agitation, because then the responsibility will fall upon you.” 

M. Romanet allowed himself to be led away without another 
word. 

Arriving at his son’s bedside, while the latter was asleep, he 
would have lost his courage if his daugliter-in-law’s face had 
not suddenly become as full of energy as it was of sweetness 
and resignation, which set him a worthy example. 

“You will be responsible for him, father,” said she: “the 
surgeon assures us that unless some complications arise we can 


WILD OATS. 1-Sl 

save him. It is our duty to avoid those complications and we 
will avoid them.” 

About nine o’clock in the evening, Jalbrun, who started off 
for dinner, for he did not know how the day had flown, re- 
membered that he had promised Pauline some news of the duel. 

She already knew the result, for not having seen him, she 
had sent a friend to inquire of Ralboise, and in th^t way heard 
of Lucien. 

Jalbrun found her in the latter’s studio, weeping, and pack- 
ing up with her maid. 

“ He is lost to me,” said she, when Jalbrun entered. 

Be very sure of that,” replied he. “ 1 see that you are going 
away — that is prudent and also dignified.” 

“But he will not die?” asked Pauline, mechanically and in 
a submissive tone. 

“ It is not sure. In one way and another, my poor child, you 
have lost everything by this duel! Of the two gentlemen, one 
has decamped and the other is seriously wounded. It is not 
encouraging, Pauline. Next time you will do better to select 
men who will not fight in earnest, that will cause you less 
anxiety.” 

The young woman sighed, wiped her eyes and said, after a 
moment: 

“ Fortunately I have not rented my other apartments.” 

Jalbrun burst out laughing. 

“ Provident, always provident!” You will make your way 
in the world, Pauline, I can tell you that.” 

The maid went out to secure a carriage; they went away with 
their packages and then Jalbrun was alone in the dark and 
deserted studio. 

“ What a child!” said he thinking of Lucien; “ he was happy 
here, in his little mansion; he left it. For what? To end by 
receiving a sword thrust.” 

Suddenly Jalbrun remembered that it was less than a year 
since the ball at Courtois’ studio, and he was struck with aston- 
ishment, thinking of all the sorrow and misfortune that he had 
witnessed in so short a time. 

“ Fast life!” murmured he, in a tone of raillery. “ I belie v'e 
that he is surfeited now with fast life. If he would only live 
quietly!” 

Lucien could not die; he was surrounded by such a strong 
will to save him, such a sustained desire to struggle with dan- 
ger for him, if he had not the strength to stmggle for himself, 
that all apprehension left him. In his lucid moments, and even 
in the midst of his delirium, he felt that he was loved, encour- 
aged, sustained; after a while he became better, and then com- 
menced a convalescence which was necessarily long. It was 
long, in fact, but it was delicious. 

Coming out of the trial through which he had just passed, and 
the memory of which, strengthened through illness, returned to 
him, as purified through a furnace, where he had left all evil. 
The languor of this return to life, which slowly took possession 
of him, bore the charms of a new existence. Around him every* 


WILD OATS. 


i3‘i 

body loved him and smiled upon him with so much goodness, 
that many times his eyes became moist with tears. 

Master Romanet treated him somewhat as he treated little 
Louisette. He addressed them both in a language of paraphrases 
and of “Do you understand?’* which made Annie and her 
mother smile. One would have said that the grandfather con- 
sidered the father and the child as two equally frail and delicate 
beings, just awakening to their intellectual existence; and, 
really, perhaps he was not far wrong. 

At last Lucien could walk alone; a slight hesitation was all 
that remained of his wound; his strength had nearly returned, 
and his physician advised liim to si*nd the spring in the South. 

Moving the wliole family would be a serious affair. When the 
little circle met to hold council, Mme. Orliet looked at her 
daughter with some uneasiness. 

Since the event which had brought Lucien home, Annie had 
made no allusion to the future. They had spoken of it vaguely, 
but the mother did not know what her daughter had decided 
upon during the long weeks of her husband’s convalescence. 

“ Lucien and I are going away together,” said Annie. 

Her husband looked at her with such an expression of gratitude 
and regret, that the young wife turned her head, for she could 
not endui’e this look. 

“ Will you not be afraid all alone?” asked Madame Orliet. 

“ He is well now,” replied Annie. “ What could happen to 
him? We will leave in two days.” 

For some time Lucien had not had to be watched all night. 
The door which communicated with his wife’s room had been 
left open, for Annie had allowed no one to care for him but her- 
self, and warned by his. lightest movement, she had hastened to 
the bedside' of the wounded man. 

This evening, when he was in bed, he called his wife to him. 

“You said that you would accompany me,” in a voice less 
firm than it had been for several days. “ I do not wish, Annie, 
after the wonderful devotion that you have just shown me, that 
my presence should be a burden to you. I see and I feel thalT 
you have the deepest and the most sincere friendship for me; 
but I fear that I have been so unworthy of your love, that you 
can never bestow it upon me again. If this is true, Annie, let 
me go away with my father; I do not wish that my presence or 
my caresses should ever be disagreeable to you.” 

“My friend,” said the young wife, “the day when you re- 
turned here, wounded, I said that I would rather die than cause 
you a moment’s sorrow or anger. I love you better than all the 
world, and better even than myself.” 

“Then we will go together,” said Lucien, taking her hand 
and putting it to his lips. 

She bent over him and kissed his hair, locks of which were 
lying on the pillow; then she went to her own room with so 
light a step, that he did not notice her departure until she was 
gone. 

With a contented mind, he slept peacefully, and felt sure of a 
happy future in the midst of the purest family joys. 


WILD OATS. 


133 


Annie wept for a long time that night. She had spoken truly; 
she loved her husband more than all the world; but she knew 
that the happiness that he dreamed of was impossible for her. 
Her love had fled with the illusions of her youth, and she knew 
that it would never return. 

When she had drained this cup of bitterness, she leaned on 
her pillow, and saw daylight entering through the curtains. 

“A new day, a new life,” she said to herself. “ One cannot 
always retain the joys of spring time ; my spring time has pass- 
ed ; now my life’s work will commence. The flowers are faded, 
T shall reap the fruits. And then, if Lucien will only be happy!” 

Tears ended her thought. 

The following day they departed for the South, where they 
remained six weeks, and after their return to Paris Lucien began 
to paint again. 

^veral years have passed since. The name of Pomanet is more 
esteemed by true artists than by the public, but full justice will 
never be given during his life to that great and true talent which 
despises those conventionalities with which everybody is pleased. 

The house is brightened by three beautiful children who are 
Madame Orliet’s joy. Master Romanet spoils them abominably. 

Annie is extremely beautiful and sympathetic, but to those 
who chat with her a little while, it is evident that she is, and 
ever will be, less of a wife than she is a mother. 

[the end.] 



134 


WILD OATS. 




* THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE. 


It was a brilliant morning, sweet and fresh, and full of early 
spring, with the sun shining as it seldom shines, and a little 
child— such a pretty little child she was — was dancing before a 
gaping crowd in the open air, with the mellow flecks of sun- 
light gleaming in and out amongst her golden curls. Her dress 
was tawdry, almost repulsive; her ribbons were faded past de- 
scription; two of her tiny toes were peeping at the world through 
the soiled white-satin slippers. She was at best but a dusty, 
travel-stained creature; but, with her blue eyes, deep and earn- 
est — terribly earnest just then — her rose- tinged, baby lips, and 
the wistful entreaty of her expression, she was at that moment 
a lovely, living picture. 

The young student standing on the outer edge of the thin 
crowd thought so, as he contrasted her curiously with her 
owner — the dullest mortal could not have named him as her 
father — who, with an ancient drum before him, and pandean 
pipes nestled cosily amongst the filthy folds of h s neck-cloth, 
was performing with energy worthy of a better cause, “ The 
Rakes of Mallow.” 

The child danced, the beams of heaven sparkled, the idlers 
applauded, until at length the poor feet tired, and the large eyes 
grew larger and more earnest. The little one’s strengih was evi- 
dently flagging. Louder and wilder grew “ The Rakes of Mallow” 
’ as the man bent forward to frown heavily upon her. With a last 
faint effort the child bounded from side to side; but the grace, 
the elasticity, was gone; and with a curse the showman stopped 
abruptly, motioning her with a wave of the hand to cease and 
ask for alms. 

Wearily and with reluctance she made her rounds. As she 
reached the student she paused, and he dropped a shilling into 
the tin plate that she held out to him. Instantly the miserable 
little face flushed and brightened so wonderfully that the young 
man, impulsively laying his hand upon her sh(»ulder, asked her 
why she was pleased. Glancing at him timidly first, she next 
turned her gaze with much meaning toward the money. It 
was so much more than she had looked for. 

“Perhaps he will not beat me now,” she whispered, with a 
deep-drawn sigh of hope, sadder than any w'eeping. 

The lookers-on broke up and vanished. The showman, cling- 


WILD OATS. 


135 


ing his drum across his shoulder, went down the street, the child 
following. Behind them, at some short distance, came the 
student, unnoticed by them, and almost without purpose, imtil, 
having passed through lanes and alleys and noisome unknown 
spots, he saw the dancer and her guide disapx)ear within the 
precincts of a dingy- looking house. 

Up and down, outside this house, he paced for many minutes, 
amazed at bis own folly, yet unable to tear himself away. He 
was haunted by the child’s face, by the sadness of her one re- 
mark. All the strong artist-soul within him was awakened, 
and cried aloud for another glimpse at the baby Love, the infant 
Venus, it had just beheld. As hejingered near the door, a faint 
cry, checked but bitter, reached him; and in another moment 
he was half way up the rotten stairs— up higher still — until 
he found himself within the room that held his lost charm — and 
her master. 

In one corner she lay cowering, piteously rubbing her right 
shoulder; her eyes had all their exquisite azure drowned in tears. 
As she saw him, she at once remembered his kindness, and, 
springing to his side, clung closely to him. 

“ Save me,” she gasped — “ save me!” 

His hand, at sight of her distress, had been raised to strike the 
brute before him; but her touch restrained him. Although the 
young man’s blood was aflame, her face subdued him. 

“ He has beaten me,” sobbed the child in anguish, regardless 
of consequences. “ He has hurt me! See!” And with infantine 
recklessness she tore the ragged covering from her shoulder and 
disclosed a bruise — now red, but that shortly would be black- 
disfiguring the fairness of her flesh. The student’s anger in- 
creased. He was young and tender-hearted; and, as the show- 
man rose, muttering an evil word, and advanced toward the 
terrified child, he pushed him back. 

“Will you sell the child ?” he asked in the heat and uncer- 
tainty of the moment. 

The showman drew back surprised. 

“ If 1 get my price,” he said, sullenly. 

“Ten pounds?” 

“ Make it fifteen, and she is yours,” said the other, brightening. 

The student hesitated. To him the sum was large. Only that 
morning he had received his half-year’s allowance from his miser 
uncle, and, were he now to part with this fifteen pounds, it 
would leave him only his brain and his ten fingers and thirty- 
five pounds to live on for the next six months. And then, when 
he had bought the child what should he do with her ? He hesi- 
tated. The little one, quick to perceive his indecision, tightened 
lier hold upon him, and with passionate entreaty, whispered: 

“ If you leave me now, he will kill me! Buy me — oh, do buy 
me!” 

Her tears fell fast; her eyes would not leave his own. He 
counted out the money silently. Throwing an old shawl about 
her, she slipped her hand within his, and together they left the 
room. 

As they stood for a moment on the outer landing, a woman 


130 


WILD 0/175. 


came hurriedly toward them. It was evident she had been list- 
ening to all that had passed within. 

“ So you are going, Jocelyne?” she said. “Well, luck be with 
vou! Here ” — holding out to the stranger a dull-gold, inexpensive 
locket — “ take this — it is hers. Some time she may be glad to 
have it.” 

“ That is to make me a lady one day,” said the child, in her 
high treble, out of which every pju'ticle of sadness had van- 
ished; “ oh, how I wish the time was come. Good-bye, 
Goody.” 

“ Good-bye,” echoed the woman carelessly, and moved away. 

Down the stairs went the student and the dancer hand in hand. 
At the last step the child broke into glad sweet song. “I am 
free, free, free !” she sang, like an escaped bird, while a thrill of 
ecstasy ran through her. 

She is happy — she is full of joy,” muttered the student, gazing 
in perplexity at the tiny, transformed creature beside him; 
“ and why ? She has only been transformed from one vagrant 
to another^poor little beggar!” 

“ Where are we going now?” asked the child, gayly. 

“ I wish I knew,” said he. 

♦ ♦ ♦ « ’tc •«< 

Ten years afterward, in a pretty room, more carelessl}^ than 
poorly furnished, sat a man, his elbows resting on a table, his 
head between his hands, staring blankly at a letter that lay be- 
fore him. All about him reigned artistic confusion. Here and 
there lay brushes and pictures half begun; on an easel near the 
window stood a large painting, almost completed; exquisite 
sketches lined the wall; a few portraits — for the most part the 
same face with a different expression, or the same figure in a 
different attitude — lay scattered about. Tlie sunbeams, breaking 
in luxuriously on that June morning, flooded the room with 
light, and flashing on the man’s face, exaggerated the miser- 
alile despairing look of it. Unlike most people, when first 
crushed by a great sorrow, George Blackwood fully realized on 
the moment all that this letter meant to him. Was it really ten 
years ago since he rescued little Jocelyne from the showman? 
Ten long years ? It seemed but yesterday. Again he saw before 
him the pretty bruised shoulder, the pale, uplifted face, the tear- 
dimmed eyes. He had bought her and taken her to his heart, 
and now he must lose her. She was his all — his life itself — the 
“very eyes” of him; yet already must he count her lost. She 
would go, caiTying with her all the light in which he reveled^ 
leaving him behind to endure the gloom alone. 

The door opened. 

“I am coming in,” called out some one gayly; and then a 
young girl entered— a fairy, a beauty, more exquisite than a 
dream, although her gown was only of blue cotton trimmed with 
black velvet bows, her only adorament a plain gold locket. Her 
hair, a rich wavy yellow, was gathered behind into a soft knot, 
her luminous eyes were purple, her lips coral. 


WILD OATS, 137 

As she approached his side, the painter did not raise his head, 
although her steps made his pulses throb. Slow ly she advanced, 
at a loss how to account for the absence of the usual greeting, 
the half-playful, wholly-loving greeting. ^ 

“Why,” cried she, at last, “ what is the matter ? Sir Knight 
of the Rueful Countenance, what aileth thee ? Don Quixote, do 
you know that your face is as long as my arm V” 

She slipped her soft white hand under his chin as she spoke, 
and compelled him to look at her. His gray eyes were almost 
stern in their sadness. 

“ Read that,” he said, putting the letter he had been mourning 
over into her hand. 

At first, as she read, she made no sign, and then her color rose, 
higher and richer; and when, at length, she turned her wonder- 
ing gaze upon him, he saw, with a pang the more, that into her 
eyes was come a marvelous gleam. 

“ It is true,” she murmured, breathlessly — “ quite true — not a 
dream or a delusion! Oh, Don, it is impossible!” 

“ It is true,” he said, but the last faint spark of hope that he 
bad encouraged unknown to himself died within him as he wit- 
nessed the intensity of her delight. 

“ True that I, the beggar-maid, the waif, am a rich man’s 
granddaughter ?” She asked the question with parted lips and 
lovely, bewildered eyes. “ Don, come here and pinch me — I can- 
not be awake! Why, it is better than Hans Anderson; more 
wonderful than the Arabian NightsV^ Then, once more return- 
ing to the letter, she recited aloud such scraps of information as 
most astounded her. 

“ ‘ Stolen by her nurse when only two years old, through mo- 
tives of revenge ’ — revenge for what, I wonder? — ‘ and, later on, 
was given into the charge of the woman Grainger ’ — that indeed 
was Goody’s name! — ‘had on her, at time of disappearing, a 
plain gold locket with initials, “J. G.” ’ Yes, here they are. 
What do they stand for, Don ?” 

“ ‘ Jocelyne Gresham,’ your mother’s maiden name.” 

“ Poor mother! And what am I now? Jocelyne, or Miss Jo- 
celyne, or what ?” 

She burst into laughter, while he watched her — heart- 
broken. 

“It is too good to be true,” she said. “ Do you remember how 
you used to call me your ‘ Princess in disguise’ ? And see, your 
words were a prophecy! Oh, what good times we shall nave 
now, what long, long holidays, what glorious drives, and the 
opera every night! Of course I shall have plenty of money, and 
lots' of pretty dresses and rings, and a carriage perhaps and—” 

“ My poor child,” he inten-upted sadly, “ have you been pining 
so much for all these things?” 

“No, no, indeed!” cried she, eagerly, running up to where he 
had drawn himself apart from her into the window. “Until 
now, when it dawned upon me that I might have them, I have 
never cared for them. But how sad you look, Don! Are you 
not glad that such good fortune has befallen me ?” 


138 


WILD OATS. 


“ How can I be glad, Jocelyne, when its corning will take you 
from me?” 

“ Take me from you?” — in a changed, low tone. 

“Yes; of course you will go now to live with your grand- 
father.” 

“Oh, must I do that?” she said; and her face fell, losing its 
joyous expression. But she did not repudiate the idea with 
scorn or anger; and something that was like anger against her 
coldness rose within him. At the moment he almost hated her. 

“ Do not break your heart about it,” he remarked, with a sup- 
pressed sneer. “ I dare say in a very little time you will adore 
this new relative. Think of all that lies before you, and never 
look back. It is a mistake.” 

“ I suppose I shall like him very well by and by, and — and all 
that,” said Jocelyne, still rueful; “but I shall never love him as 
I love you, Don — never! After all, it is you who have been a 
real father to me, is it not ? And such a nice, handsome young 
father too!” she added, with a laugh. 

Each sweet, unblushing avowal stabbed him. He felt he qould 
not bear much more of it. 

“You had better run away now,” he said; “I am expecting 
Mr. Mayfair every moment. There — was not that a knock? 
Now go.” 

“Already? Well” — with an air of decision — “I want to see 
him too, so I shall remain.” 

“No; I wish to see him alone first. Go, Jocelyne.” 

He used a tone of command which she at least had never 
heard from him before; and she obeyed. Standing half in and 
half out of the doorway leading into an adjoining apartment, 
she spoke again hurriedly, her courage failing her at the last 
moment. 

“ If he should be cross, Don, or proud, or disagreeable in any 
way, you will let me stay with you ? Promise me that. Quick 
— I hear him!” 

“You shall decide for yourself,” said Blackwood coldly. 

“ Remember what you say. You will not coerce me in any 
way ? If you wish to remain, you will stand by me ?” 

“ You shall do as you will,” he said again; and almost as the 
one door closed on the retreating figure the other opened to ad- 
mit her grandfather. 

He was an old man of middle height, with a gentle, weak, aris- 
tocratic face. Seeing the painter before him, he bowed. 

“ Mr. Blackwood, I presume?” he said: and Blackwood com- 
ing forward, handed him a chair, and at once plunged into the 
dreaded subject. 

The gentleman’s story was long and tedious, the painters 
short and concise. No doubt about her being the long-lost 
child could possibly remain. At the end the old man said 
huskily: 

‘ ‘ I cannot thank you — no words can tell you how I feel — yet 
I am here now only to do you an injury — to rob you of the child 
you love! Mr. Blackwood is there nothing I can do for you ?” 

“ Nothing,” said the painter briefly. 


WILD OATS. 


139 


“When may I see her?” 

“ Now, at once. She is waiting your summons. May I ask 
when — ” he stopped to clear his throat — “you intend taking her 
away with you?” 

“ To-day,” said Mayfair, with a gesture of surprise — “ I 
thought from my letter you would understand. It will be bet- 
ter so. You see, sir,” — speaking very gently — “ you are a young 
man, and she must have outgrown her childhood, and — 
and ” 

“ My aunt has lived with me ever since I— found Jocelyne,” 
interrupted the painter, haughtily. 

“ Of course, of course; I quite comprehend. Still ” 

“ To-day ?” broke out the other, with sudden passion. “Must 
it indeed be so soon ? In one hour to tear asunder the links that 
years have forged! Is she to be as nothing to me now, when 
countless memories have united us for so long? To you, this 

child with all her pretty ways, is unknown; to me Why, I 

bought her — made her mine, as I madly hoped, forever — does 
that ^ve me no claim upon her ?” 

“ Sir, if I might be allowed to ” 

“ What!” cried the young man, fiercely, springing to his feet; 
and, then breaking into a bitter laugh. “ Forgive me,” he said, 
“but if you onlv knew all! I had her so cheap — my poor 
child!” 

There was such infinite yearning love and pity in his tones 
that Mayfair’s heart, which was a tender one, bled for him. 

“ You shall see her now,” said Blackwood, gently, and, open- 
ing the door, he called “ Jocelyne ” twice. Then, as he heard her 
step approaching, he went out, and let them meet unseen, 

******* 

She was gone. Already she had ceased to be part of his 
daily life. She had demurred a good deal to such a sudden 
departure, and had shed many sincere and loving tears; but she 
had at length consented, and the old house would know her no 
more. Just at the last Blackwood had said to her, “ Well, 
Jocelyne, you see I have kept my promise; I told you you should 
decide for yourself.” It was the only reproach he had allowed 
himself to utter, and he had said it smiling. But when she was 
indeed gone, and the door had closed behind her, he had fiung 
himself face downward upon the table, and for long hours had 
lain there motionless as one dead^ 

******* 

Two years passed away— two years of great success and utter 
heart-loneliness for Blackwood. During the first miserable 
months after Jocelyne’s departure, out of his wretchedness he 
had conceived and sent forth in the world a picture that was 
destined to make him famous. The wonderful thing that for 
long years had been bis dream by day and night had at last come 
true — his name would live— his praise was in all men’s moutlis; 
while fortune, with her fine disregard of economy, had at the 
same time thrown to him yet another boon; for death had 


WILD OATS, 


140 ] 

loosed his uncle’s hands from off his money-bags, and they, 
coming to Blackwood, had made him rich. Yet all was nothing 
to him for the want of her he loved. Determinately as he had 
tried to live the feeling down, be still pined for the sight of two 
blue eyes, for the touch of Jocelyne’s cool little fingers, the 
music of her voice. 

With Jocelyne the time had been spent in idle, happy wander- 
ing. From city to city, from capital to capital, the old man had 
taken her, feasting her eyes on all that was fairest and most 
choice — educating her in the fullest sense of the word. Admira- 
tion, love, variety, all that a woman most craves, was hers; she 
reigned a little queen in her own circle, both by virtue of her 
great beauty and the fortune that should one day be hers; yet, 
on this, her first morning in town, after her return home, as she 
unclosed her violet eyes, and fiung her white arms above her 
head in lazy wakening, her one thought was: “ To-day I shall 
see Don.” 

“ Later on, when luncheon was over, she turned to her grand- 
father. 

“I vant to go and see Don,” she said. 

“ Whom, my pet?” 

“ Don Quixote.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Blackwood! Well, so you shall some day.” 

“ No, not some day — to-day — this very moment.” 

“But, my darling, you know you promised Nugent to ride 
with him.” 

“ Oh, never mind! Too much of anything is good for nothing, 
and I am weary of Nugent. Let me assure myself that he can 
exist without seeing me for one whole day. Perhaps — if he sur- 
vives — he may have something to say to-morrow that I have not 
already heard a thousand times.” 

“ I wish you would be a little more civil to him, Jocelyne,” 
said the old gentleman, coaxingly. “You know how highly I 
think of him, and — and he is the best match this season.” 

“ Dear grandpapa, you forget — have we not two princes still 
un wedded? I reserve myself for royalty!” declared the spoiled 
beauty, making an adorable little moue at her own lovel^ image 
in an opposite glass. “ But about Don — you will come with me, 
grandpa.” 

“Of course,” said he, perhaps in his heart relieved that his 
willful charge had not elected to go alone. 

******* 

As they entered the painter’s studio, Blackwood — whose 
thoughts had been with her all the day, but who had not dared 
to hope so soon for her coming — rose to receive them. He was 
strangely pale, and looked older than his thirty-one years. By a 
supreme effort he controlled himself, and succeeded in greeting 
them calmly, if coldly. 

Was this Jocelyne — this radiant being in trailing silks and all 
the pretty devices of a last fashion? How unlike the child in 
blue cotton — yet how like, and alas, how much more beautiful! 
All at once he realized how vain had been that cruel torturing 


WILD OATS, 141 

of himself; his love rose high above all chains — he was hers for 
good or evil on this side of the grave. 

Mr. Mayfair, watching him narrowly, never guessed at all 
this — the man was so calm, so self-possessed, showed such a 
curious want of feeling, the terrible struggle within him making 
him curt and cold beyond his wont. Once, as Jocelyne stood 
somewhat apart, he asked her: 

“ Are you happy?” 

And she answered him, with a little smiling nod: 

“ Very happy:” then prettily: “ But all the more so now that I 
have seen you again. I felt a want before.” 

The sweet words warmed his frozen heart. He could not 
resist smiling back an answer to them, and then hated himself 
for having done so. She was no longer anything to him that he 
should feel pleasure at the kind words that probably meant so 
little. 

“ Prince Charming has not arrived yet?” he asked, prompted 
by the consuming fear within him. 

“No, indeed; and he would be wiser not, unless he .wishes a 
cold reception.” 

“How cruel of youl But some day you will think differ- 
ently.” 

“Shall I ? Why, you are as bad as grandpa!” said she, wdth a 
lovely pout. “ All the morning he has been tormenting me to 
marry, marry, marry. Am I then so bad to look at that I must 
hurry my misfortune ?” 

“ Then there is some one?” he asked carelessly, but paling a 
little. 

“ Yes. I don’t mind telling you — you remember how I used to 
tell you everything that concerned my stupid self ? It is Mr. 
Nugent; and it vexes grandpa that I cannot bring myself to 
think him perfection. Not but wliat he is a nice boy rather ; 
only all boy lovers are so— so sugary! Any other kind is prefer- 
able.” 

“There are others?” he could question her only in a dull 
heavy way. 

“ Oh, yes,” holding up ten little pale lavender fingers— “more 
than I can count — young, old, and middle-aged! I tliink I like 
the old ones best, they are so good-natured, and give one such 
pretty presents. And the fun of it is ’’—laughing— “ grandpa lets 
me take anything from them, though I must take only flowers 
and bonbons, and that from the boys ” 

“ Jocelyne, I fear we must be going,” broke in Mr. Mayfair, 
coming lingeringly back to her. He was a connoisseur of pic- 
tures, and had been engrossed by one all this time. 

******* 

After this Blackwood saw a good deal of Jocelyne. She would 
run in and out between three and six during the long spring 
evenings, generally accompanied by her duenna, a pleasant-faced 
oli lady of about sixty, and once or twice, for a few moments, 
alone; and each day the struggle to conceal his love from her 
grew fiercer. She would tell him all her merry secrets, and her 


WILD OAT^. 


14 !& 

few troubles — how she had finally rejected Nugent, and thereby 
very much angered her grandfather — not that her grandfather 
was ever really angry with her — so it did not greatly matter; 
now there was some one else on the tapis, but him she liked just 
as little; and so on. 

All this innocent prattle tortured the jealous heart that lis- 
tened. Blackwood was haunted by the fear of a day that might 
— nay, must — come when she would come in there, and, with 
sweet, shy blushes, tell him how at last her choice was made, her 

young love given, and then He would put a stop to it. She 

should come there no more. Death at once was to be chosen 
before this daily dying. 

One day, as he was in this mood, she ran in alone. 

“ I have just five minutes,” she said, “ and then I am due at 
Mrs. Brand’s. I never saw anyone look so ill as you, Don! 
What are you doing with yourself ? Give up that nasty painting 
for just this one day, and come with us to Brand’s; she takes it 
quite to heart that you never go there now.” 

“ I am particularly busy to-day, so you must excuse me; and, 
besides, I cannot say I greatly care to associate with the silly set 
of people she chooses to gather around her.” 

“ Oh! Am I a silly person. Don ? No ” — holding up a warn- 
ing finger — “don’t say it. I can see by your eyes you have 
something withering at the very tip of your tongue. Oh, what 
a glorious day it is — but too warm!” 

She tilted her cream-colored hat a little backward, so that it 
sat on her head sideways, and added the charm of innocent 
coquetry to her appearance. Her very beauty irritated liim. 

“Put your hat straight,” he said, unkindly. 

“ Is it becoming!” asked Jocelyne. She went over to a min-or 
and put her hat back into its proper position; then she came to 
his side. “What is it? How have I vexed you? Do you not 
then love me any more ?” She asked all these questions in the 
pretty, soft, beseeching voice she might have used five years be- 
fore. 

The painter gazed up steadily into her face; she was bending 
slightly over him. A minute that was a lifetime passed so, and 
he conquered. No — she should never knowhow madly he loved 
her. 

“ What a little coquette you are?” he exclaimed, with a cold 
smile. 

“ Now I shall tell you all about last night,” she said, settling 
herself cosily into an arm-chair. “ I can assure you you lost by 
not being there. I was never at so good a ball — and never en- 
joyed myself so much.” 

“Which means that you made several new conquests, and 
sent one or more men home broken-hearted. That is the keenest 
enjoyment a young lady of the present day knows.” 

“Don’t bite your mustache quite through, Don,” said Joce- 
lyne, as yet undismayed; “the only merit a fair mustache can 
claim is its length. Yes — I certainly did make a conquest last 
night, but I didn’t get the chance of refusing any one— so you 
are wrong there.” 


WILD OATS. 


143 


“Another! Wliy, you are a perfect warrior!” he exclaimed 
bitterly. “An Indian with his belt full of scalps would be a 
mere trifle in the battlefield compared with you. May I ask the 
name of your latest victim ?” 

“No, you may not. I don’t care about conversing with ill- 
tempered people,” said Jocelyne, rising with much dignity. 
“Because your cook, or your man, or your chosen friend, has 
annoyed you is no reason why you should vent your suppressed 
rage upon me. I shall come here no more. Perhaps that will 
please you.” 

“Yes, it will,” retorted Blackwood, rising too, and growing 
very pale; “nothing will please me better. You disturb me and 
waste my time with your frivolous tales of lovers unworthy to 
bear the name. Go, and do not return — it will be better for us 
both. Forgive me if I am rude; only — go.” 

“You need not say it again,” said Jocelyne, who was looking 
almost tall, and very proud, and whose eyes were filled with 
tears. 

She made him a little dignified curtsy and left the room — 
forever, as he thought; she could scarcely forgive the grossness 
of his behavior. So he fell into despair, and could neither eat 
nor sleep. 

Nevertheless, at four o’clock the very next day, there came a 
low knock at his door. 

“Come in,” said he, wearily. 

The door was opened partially, but the visitor — whoever it was 
— apparently had some doubts about the propriety of entering. 

“Come in!” impatiently. 

“ Oh, but I’m afraid!” murmured a voice that made Don 
spring from his chair. Only just now he had been thinking 
he should never see her again! 

“Is it you, Jocelyne?” he cried eagerly, going to the door and 
drawing her in by both hands. 

“ Yes,” demurely; then, with a pretended glance of amaze- 
ment from under her long lashes — “ and, positively, I do believe 
you are glad to see me!” 

“Glad!” 

“Well, so you should be after your scandalous conduct of 
yesterday, ’^ou were very near never having that pleasure 
again. Why, Don, how worn you look! Have you really been 
repenting in sackcloth and ashes for your sins against me ?” 

“ I have neither eaien nor slept,” he said, “ T thought you 
would not forgive — and you have overlooked my fault so soon.” 

“Yes, I know I am sadly wanting in proper feeling. But” — 
severely — “ to starve yourself — how extremely wrong of you! 
You shall have something to eat this very moment. I saw the 
luncheon laid as I came in. No, don’t ring; I will attend to you 
myself, and scold you all the time.” 

She rustled out of the room in her pretty, vivacious way, 
without giving him leisure to protest; so that he was constrained 
to follow her. When in the luncheon-room, she hovered round 
him, pouring him out some wine — cutting the bread even — 
while he, looking on, had not the courage to interfere, so ex- 


144 


WILD OATS. 


quisite was the pleasure it gave him to see her do it. He tried 
to eat, but failed. When he had drunk a glass of wine, he rose. 

“I cannot eat,” he said, with a smile — “you have sufficed 
me. Now will you tell me all I refused to hear yesterday. There 
was some one new ” 

“ No, I was only joking. But I am in fresh trouble. Mr. 
Blunden — you remember, I met him two months ago — spoke to 
grandpa yesterday, and told him I was the light of his eyes, and 
all the rest of it; and grandpa thinks I should listen to him. 
Do you know the man, Don ?” 

“ Yes; he is a dark, handsome man. I know him very well.” 

“ And don’t like him ! Well, neither do I; so we won’t waste 
any more time talking about him. What I really came for to-day 
was to tell you I am going down to Ivors to-morrow, and to 
make you promise to come to my birthday ball next month.” 

“ But, my dear child, it is so long ” 

“I don’t care how long it is. I don’t care if it is a hundred 
years since you were last at a ball. I intend you shall come to 
mine. Now — do you hear? — I insist. You owe me some repara- 
tion, so you can’t refuse. Good-bye, Don — I must run away; but 
say ‘ Yes ’ before I go.” 

“ Yes,” he said, unable to resist. 

**»*#•* 

In Jocelyne’s pretty boudoir that night high argument was 
being held. Mr. Mayfair, hot and irritated, was standing opjx)- 
site his granddaugl)ter, with uplifted finger, making a vain at- 
tempt to induce her to listen to reason; while she, in her pale 
green ball-dress and water-lilies, and with her lips and eyes alike 
mutinous, was plainly and shamefully rebellious. 

“ I confess I cannot understand you,” said the old man plaint- 
ively. “ Last week you showed yourself thoroughly gracious to 
him, and to-night you would not spare him even one dance. It 
is — it must be— mere caprice. He complained to me bitterly 
about it.” 

“ I hate tell-tales,” returned Jocelyne, frowning. “ Is he 
afraid of me, that he must employ a go-between? Last week I 
looked upon him merely as a friend, and could afford to be civil. 
He has put it out of my power to do so any longer.” 

“ Now, what objection can you possibly have to Blunden ?” 
asked her grandfather, in despair. “You refused Nugent 
because, you said, his nose was not in thd middle of his face — 
an absurd remark, that could be applied to any one. But Blun- 
den is acknowledged by all to be a remarkably handsome fellow 
— the handsomest in town.” 

“He isn’t half so handsome as Don,” replied Jocelyne, pro- 
vokingly. 

Mayfair turned upon her angrily. 

“ It is always Don,” he said. “lam sick of the name. One 
would think it was Mr. Blackwood you wanted to marry.” 

There was dead silence. A cold hand seemed to have suddenly 
clutched at the girl’s heart. These few idle words had done for 
her what two long years had failed to do. She stood for a full 


WILD OATS. 


145 


minute as if turned to stone. Did she love* him ? Slowly her 
color faded until cheeks, and brow and lips were white as 
snow. Then she turned and sought lier own room. Throwing 
herself, dressed as she was, upon lier bed, she fought a long bat- 
tle with her heart through all that night season, until, as the 
morning dawned, she knew. 

The next day she left town, and went down to Ivors without 
seeing Blackwood again, to spend each quiet hour in troubled 
thought. She was now assured of her own feelings; but could 
she answer for him? He was always so cold, so indifferent — no 
little word that she could remember bad ever escaped him, and 

yet She alternated between fear and hope, one moment 

possessed with doubt, the next sustained by some fitful, raptur- 
ous gleam of certainty. 

As the morning of her birthday broke to let the many gifts 
from every side pour in, and no mark, no token of affection, 
came from him, her hopes fell dead. And when at night she 
stood robed in white satin, beside her grandfather, to receive her 
guests, there was a sickening dread within her that at the last 
the one she loved might fail in coming; so that, when he did 
come, she could greet him only with lips as white as her gown 
and a smile so faint as to be almost imperceptible. 

He noticed it, and wondered at the change, and grew uneasy 
about it. When she danced with him she was silent— the gay, 
debonair child was gone, leaving a silent, absent girl in her 
place. As the night wore on, and watching lier, he noticed that 
with others she was almost her own gay self again — that with 
him alone slie was different — there grew upon him a determina- 
tion to know the worst. 

He found her standing by the open door of the conservatory, 
alone, gazing into the quiet night. 

“ How cool it looks up there,” she said, as he approached. 

“ Will you come and see how cool?” he asked; and, as she ac- 
quiesced, he put a shawl round her, and together they went 
down the steps into the gar en beneath. 

In silence they walked down gravel paths, past sleeping 
flowers, under the lonely sighing trees, until, having left behind 
them all frequented spots, they emerged suddenly upon the 
borders of the lake, over which the white moon had flung a sil- 
ver veil. 

Jocelyne had never spoken since they left the house; and now, 
standing beside the water, she had thrown back from her throat 
and arms the blue shawl, as though unable to endure even so 
much covering. Her thoughts — where were they? Blackwood 
hardly dared to speak. Was this strange pain at his heart the 
presentiment of coming evil ? He gazed at the stars studding 
the mighty dome above him, and at last could bear the silence 
no longer. 

“Jocelyne, what is it?” he said. 

She glanced at him with half-frightened, half-inquiring eyes, 
but made no reply. 

“ There is something wrong. Nay, child, you cannot deceive 
me— tell me what it is. Where is all the gayety the brightness, 


146 WILD OA TS. 

that should be yoiirs— and this your birthday, too? Tell me, 
what troubles you ?” 

Still she made him no answer — only turned her little white 
throat restlessly from side to side, as though seeking escape. 

“ Is it about Blunden ?” he asked, in a choked voice. 

“ Yes,” she said, catching eagerly at the suggestion, though 
Blunden was never further from her thoughts. “ You know he 
came down early this morning, and after dinner he was foolish 

enough Of course I refused him — and now tliey will all be 

angry, and say I have again done unwisely. It is always the 
same; and yet what do they want? Am I to marry to please 
them, or to please myself?” 

She finished a little wrathfully, through her agitation. 

There was a long pause. Some tiny, foolish songster, mistak- 
ing the brilliant moon for a faded sun, broke into a joyous 
melody, but, discovering his error, quickly subsided into a 
sleepy thrill, and then once more into silence. The sorrowful 
lap of the waves alone disturbed the calm. 

“ Jocelyne,” Blackwood said in a low tone, “ why is it ‘al- 
ways the same ?’ Is it — is it because you love another ?” 

“ Yes,” answered the girl, faintly. 

It was come at last. He almost staggered as the trembling 
word reached his ear. Then an overmastering desire to know 
the name of him who had gained his all took possession of him. 
He caught her arm roughly. 

“ Who is it? Speak!” he exclaimed, passionately. 

Jocelyne burst into tears. She was already overwrought, and 
the sudden vehemence of his touch unhinged her. 

“You — you — you!” she cried, flinging out with a gesture that 
was almost reckless her bare white arms toward him in the 
moonlight. For a moment she stood so, then, covering her face 
with her hands, she shrank away. “ Ah, what have I said ? 
What have I done ?” she sobbed. She was in his arms. 

“ If jou are lying, I will kill you!” he said. “ Say it again!” 
Then, in a changed tone — “ My sweet, my angel, is it indeed the 
truth? Can it be true ?” 

“And you, Don?” 

But, though she asked the question, she hardly heeded the 
answer, his look, his touch, the tender passion of his voice being 
alb convincing. He bent his face to hers — for four long years he 
had not kissed her — and now their lips met as they had never 
met before. 

Just before they returned to the house, he put his hand beneath 
her chin, and, raising her face until be could gaze clearly down 
into the pure violet of her eyes, said almost sadly: 

“ Beloved, have you thought of everything — all you must 
renounce— not wealth perhaps, but rank — you, who might have 
been Think of all you will lose.” 

“ Nay,” she answered sweetly, her red lips parting in a fond 
smile, her eyes gleaming darker through tears of joy, “ how can 
I, when it is so immeasurably outweighed by all that I shall 
gain ?” 

[the end.] 


WILD OATS. 


14T 


DEVOTED. 


Once upon a time men and women took vows of asceticism 
upon themselves, devoting themselves to the service of their fel- 
lows; one does not nowadays look upon this as the highest form 
of devotion. 

Three people we have seen living devoted lives, but what did 
they think about the matter? 

Just nothing at all, 

Giacinta or ’Cinta Idyane, the girl, certainly thought not one 
word about “devotion” or “ sacrifice,” or indeed of anything 
with so grand a name to it. 

Look at her! running through the long coarse grass of the 
fated region. Her brown feet and arms are bare, her head 
uncovered, although the women of the south do not stand in the 
mid-day sun uncovered if they are wise. Her face is brown, 
and with the delicately chiseled, straight features, which per- 
haps come from her unknown Greek ancestors, who in the dim 
past had landed on these shores; her raven hair is knotted on 
the crown of her head — you may see numbers of such girls’ 
heads if you look at an old frieze. 

Her garments are poor, but they are not ragged; she has on a 
gray cotton skirt — very probably the cotton is a Manchester 
print, all the nations of the wdrld use these things; she wears 
above this a loose, short-sleeved bodice of rich blue cotton, such 
as a man’s blouse is made of; tied round her throat is a kerchief 
of orange, and round her waist, with its soft ends trailing below 
the looseness of her bodice, is a wisp of scarlet stuff. This last 
is put on for finery, as a maiden of another class bedecks herself 
with jewels. The orange kerchief would be shading her head if 
the sun were shining, but, though it is mid-day, the girl’s head 
is bare. 

But what a heat bears down upon the land! what a damp, 
murky, pestiferous fire seems to burn one up, to drag the very 
spirit of life from one’s limbs! 

’Cinta, running and springing through the grasses, stops, then 
moves languidly her lazy feet. Is this some weariful, voluptu- 
ous, Eastern clime, where one dreams and sleeps the soft hours 
away? where it “is always afternoon” — where “all things al- 
ways seem the same ” — where there is not life, but some lus- 
cious, vague thing called existence ? 

Not at all. 

It was once a famous land. Greek heroes trod its shores and 
reared mighty temples upon it. There they stand to-day, gray 


148 


WILD OATS, 


and silent, strangely perfect, rearing their carved pediments 
against the sunless lire of the blue sky. It is a cloudless sky, an 
airless region; pestilence walks along it unmasked, and miasma 
is one’s yoke-fellow and comrade all the days one passes there. 

All about it is a level, marshy plain, whence fetid odors rise, 
and whose sole masters are herds of buffaloes which men call 
tame — they may be so. The plain is waslied by the shining 
Neapolitan waters; across the Baj' of Salerno stretches the mar- 
velous beauty of the Amalfi coast. One may imagine round 
the cape the blue glory of the Bay of Naples. At Paestum the very 
sun in heaven is darkened and conquered by the living death of 
the place. 

The temples must be guarded; they belong to the nation, and 
they have set a fence about them, and they exact a toll from 
sight-seers, and one man at least must be told off to do the 
work. 

A soldier must fight for his country. Wliat matter whether 
he fight against flesh and blood or against a poisoned air ? 

A year ago, Ludovico Idyane was chosen, from out the 
hundreds who filled the monster barracks of Salerno, to take the 
post. 

A brave man thinks naught of danger. Duty was enough, 
but duty did not tell him to take his wife and ’Cinta to Paes- 
tum with him. There was a house for him, and a soldier is 
handy. He could, as they say in another country, “fend for 
himself.” He issued his commands. Wife and child should 
stay on at Salerno, and he bade young Giovanni Peluso take 
heed to them. 

Now, do women obey such commands? Not generally. 
The loyal sort do not, and Lucia was loyal to her husband, and 
young ’Cinta — she was fifteen then — was loyal to father and 
mother. 

A year went by, and ’Cinta was tall. She ran lightly, but she 
as often wandered wearilJ^ Ludovico, the man who admitted 
the tribes of tourists — he was tall, and straight, and soldier-like, 
but w^hat a fire was in his dark eyes, how thin was his oli\’e 
cheek, and what a scarlet patch burnt upon it! 

The foe was conquering him. 

But your Italian carries a hght heart in his breast, and 
Ludovico, if he coughed huskily, hid it away under a bright 
word. Perhaps he should fight through. For the sake of wife 
and child he would be his strongest. 

’Cinta was running, as we have said, through the tangle of 
coarse grass that separates the Temple of Neptune from the 
further ruins. Ludovico himself had come sol^rly along from 
his cottage into the vast weird avenue of columns that now 
make the roofless temple. A string of English people had just 
arrived; on the far side were a German bride and bridegroom: 
coming past ’Cinta were three American tourists, young men 
with knapsacks, and opera-glasses, and the inevitable scarlet 
volume of Baedeker. 

One English lady was unearthing what she possessed of mistj 


WILD OATS. 149 


Greek lore, and romanced about sacrificial rites and priestly 
functions and vestals. 

“Can you fancy it possible ?” she waved her hand round. 
“Was there a roof, do you think? I should say an awning 
would have been best, if the air then was like the air now. 
Dear me — the heat I*’ She was driven to fan herself, and she 
wiped the dew of faint heat from her upper lip. “There would 
not be this grass ” 

A girl kicked at the uneven stones the grass hid. 

“ Certainly not, tanta mia,'’’ cried she; “ there is polished 
marble if you like to look for it, of course.” 

“And processions of youths and maidens singing, perhaps 
dancing, and flowers, and incense, and ” 

“ Don’t particularize too much, dearest, or you’ll put us all in 
a fog. We sha’n’t know whether we are talking about a 
Greek festival in honor of Neptune, or a Roman festa — shall we, 
Dick?” 

“ I don’t know.” Dick was standing and sketching, or rather 
had been standing and sketching; just now he stood and 
pointed. “One of the natives, I suppose — Greek or Italian, 
aunt ?” he lazily asked. 

“ Very probably of Greek origin.” For the nonce the aunt 
was absorbed by a worship of the Hellenic element. 

“ Gracious!” sconied the girl, Bessie, “ she’s an Italian peasant; 
she’s very pretty.” 

This referred to ’Cinta. 

“I’ll go and speak to her.” 

The rest watched. As the English girl advanced, making signs 
of friendliness, the Italian girl retreated. 

“ Afraid, poor thingl” ejaculated the kindly aunt. 

“Gammon!” responded Dick. “She’d let me paint her if I 
asked her.” 


“ Signora.” 

The trim, blue-uniformed figure of Idyane had come close up 
to the party without being heard. The 'man touched his forage- 
cap, and again said: 

“ Signora ” 

“ Ah!” 

“ I have some photographs of the ruins; we are allowed to sell 
them for ourselves; the signor will buy ? Very good ones — by 
Sommer of Naples — the best, and true. See, signor!” and he 
held one aloft. 


“ It is good,” one said, and soon all the photographs were being 
pulled about by one and another. 

“ You’ll make your fortune out of us!” cried a younger edition 


of Dick. 

Idyane shrugged his shoulders and shook his head with the 
good-humored Italian smile. 

“ I do not understand, signor.” 

“No Ingles — no, no,” Dick translated volubly, and laughed. 
“ We are wide awake,” he added, or rather he gave some Ital- 
ian words which very fitly copied that expression. 


150 


WILD OATS. 


“ No, no; I make no fortune here,’* and as swiftly the face fell 
to melancholy. 

‘ ‘ They pay you well ?” jerked the aunt, who had indulged in 
the Greek rhapsody. 

“ Enough.” A stoical shrug of the shoulders and a spreading 
forth of lean brown hands answered. T do not complain.” 

“ They ought to pay a man double — treble, for taking his life 
in his hand and sitting down here!” 

The man laughed. 

“The signora thinks much of the danger — what is it? One 
may have fever anywhere, and they give us quinine — plenty.” 

“They do?” 

“Certainly, signora. We must die without the quinine; we 
take it and drink the red wine — we should not drink good wine 
like that if we were not in the midst of the malaria.” 

“You are a single man — no wife, no child ?” The lady meant 
he ought to be. 

“ Signora, no,” and he laughed. “ No, no; if I were alone — I 
think the fever would be stronger than I am. Now I am 
stronger than the fever. Yes, yes, lam strong. Signora, that 
is my girl,” he coughed a hollow, dry cough. “ That is ’Cinta, 
signora,” he panted. “ She is a good girl.” 

’Cinta was nodding and gesticulating. Perhaps Dick was 
right, and she had no fear, but just the shyness of a creature 
who is half untaught. 

The fair English girl, trim and dainty, and the picturesque, 
free grace of the Italian, made a good and pleasing contrast as 
they strolled along through the long grass. 

“ She ought not to be here,” decided the lady. 

Idyane looked frightened. 

“ She is not ill. What shall I be, what will Lucia be without 
our child? Ah, she is good, signora! she would not stay in 
Salerno; she comes with us here. The time will not be long — a 
year has gone.” 

“ And it has told upon you.” 

The man had coughed again. 

“ I fight the enemy, signora,” he said cheerily, lifting his gray 
head, and straightening his tall figure. “ And we will conquer, 
we are strong.” 

The photographs were bought, and Idyane’s pockets filled, and 
very soon after every one was stroiling wearily along toward the 
gateway. No one dared stay long in that killing atmosphere, 
the dear life seemed dragged out of limbs which at home were 
used to the invigorating winds of the north. Bessie, tlie gay, 
declared she was quite “ done up ” when she had climbed the 
little outer staircase of ’Cinta’s home, had talked with the 
mother Lucia, and had come down again. As for Dick, he must 
also have collapsed, for he talked not at all. 

It was no more than two hours past mid-day, and they must 
go. Antiquities were very interesting to see, and the wonders 
of Greek art are alluring, but it was like drinking nectar from a 
poisoned cup — they must fly before the dews of the fading day 
should rise from the marshes. 


WILD OATS. 


151 


Children, ragged and dirty, and laughing, called for coppers; 
I)ests of beggars, pests of curiosity venders, besieged the car- 
riages about the gate. What a wild, weird crew! and what a 
wild, weird and gloomy scene was all about! Desolation and 
the perfection of art, squalor and the vision of the greatest vol- 
uptuousness the world has ever seen, a past which bore eternal 
life, and at the same moment a present which was a death in 
life. 

The driver shouted to his horses and cracked his whip, 
the carriage rolled along. Ah, who was calling? what was 
forgotten ? 

’Cinta Idyane was running and calling. Bessie suddenly 
roused. “ I’ll speak to her,” said she. 

“ Mystery — eh ?” 

“ Signorina, it is one word — one word!” 

But the girl’s face was rosy red. and she fell silent. 

Bessie leaned down over the side of the carriage. “ I know,” 
she said, in easy Italian, “ it is a message for — for that friend 
you told me about. Say it quick, the horses want to fly.” 

“ Signorina, the horses of Palco do not fly,” laughed ’Cinta. 

“ Where shall I find him ?” Girls soon appropriate each other’s 
secrets. 

“ Go to the big gate of the barracks and ask for Peluso— Gio- 
vanni Peluso.” 

“ What then ?” 

He sent me a letter, and I have not written one to him ; say 
I am sorry and give this to him.” She put a bunch of poppies 
into Bessie’s hand, and then took a little silver cross from her 
bosom, kissed it, and gave that to Bessie. “Say it bears my kiss 
upon it, say that ’Cinta ” 

“ Icliuh — tchuh! The horses are wild, they are like fire, they 
tear my arms off !” cried the coachman. 

’Cinta sprang down from the step of the carriage, and waving 
her hands gaily, ran off. 

Summer came, and autumn and winter, and all the English 
people were away in northern homes. The busy town of Salerno 
went on with its 'merchandising, ships went and came, and trade 
kept all alive. 

Regiments, too, quartered in the big new barracks were chang- 
ed. So it is ; no soldier is long at one place. Amongst others 
Giovanni Peluso, ’Cinta’s friend, had been drafted up to the 
north. He was on the heights above Genoa, from which city he 
had written her a letter! He did not know whether she ever re- 
ceived it, at any rate no friend had come his way to bring him 
poppies again, or to give him a silver cross. Ah, that silver 
cross ! He wore it always. Perhaps he should never see ’Cinta 
again ; perhaps she had forgotten him ? No, he did not believe 
that. He would pray, holding the little cross in his hand, that 
he might one day get sent again down Salerno way. 

What was happening to ’Cinta ? 

Peluso thought about her — the English girl, Bessie, thought 


152 


WILD OATS. 


and talked about her, wondered whether life brought as good a 
love to her as it did to some people. 

Ah! “ Some people!” Prosperity and good days enlarge one’s 
soul, widen one’s sympathies, and open one’s heart largely. Grim 
philosophers preach the contrary, and set on high the advantages 
of adversity; have they themselves tried the dose? No; proS' 
perity is the thing which sweetens life and action — for those 
souls, we mean, who have any inherent sweetness in them. 

Bessie and Dick were cousins once, they were closer than 
cousins when a new year came in. 

It was springtime again, and the honeymoon had lasted for 
three whole “ moons.’’ Dick was an artist, but he had wealth 
beside, and so he was taking pleasure and studying at the same 
time. It goes without saying that he and his wife were in Italy, 
and that lady being a person of some gay whims, carried her 
husband more than once away from the acknowledged schools 
of art to regions she fancied she would like to see. 

“It is ridiculous going to Salerno,” grumbled he, knee-deep 
iu packing. 

“ Is it?” pouted she. “ Where is the picture you were once 
going to make, and to call ‘ Ancient and Modern ’-Aiid the hymn- 
book suggest the title, by the bye?” She nodded at him, and 
then absorbed herself in the folding of a dress upon the bed. 

“ I have forgotten all about it;” and he punched an obstinate 
boot into an already stuffed portmanteau. “ Jog my memory.” 

“ Psestum — aunt’s antiquities — two lovely girls — eh ? Now you 
remember ?” His wife looked up, pursing her lips, and setting 
up a would-be gravity. 

“ Ah, yes. I remember a picturesque girl — one girl.” 

‘ ‘ Only one ? Indeed !” 

“Perhaps your second made the foil for the first.” He became 
all at once anxious. “ Did you put my drab suit in the Glad- 
stone, Bess?” 

“ I did,” said she. “Now, Dick, listen. Picture or no pict- 
ure, my heart is set upon finding that girl again ; she ought to be 
married by this time.” 

“ To the fellow you unearthed at the barracks ?” 

“Of course — who else?” 

Two days after they were at Salerno, and Dick had gone out 
“ prospecting.” Bessie walked out by herself, sauntering along 
the shore. No, first she loitered in the fine public gardens, and 
she looked about for ’Cinta amongst the passers-by. Aher a 
while she got outside the town, and then she was by the shore. 
Woitlfen with gayly kerchiefed heads were washing at big oblong 
tubs; other women and girls straggled out beyond th(;se, wash- 
ing in the sparkling waves of the blue sea, as it broke on the 
sloping shore. Rubbing and beating with stones, swishing and 
rinsing in the water, laughing and chattering — all went on 
together as the girls knelt and sat on their heels at work. 

“ ’Cinta!” 

The exclamation was involuntary on Bessie’s part. 

A girl heard it, turned, sprang up, threw down her half- 


WILD OATS. 


153 


■washed garment, and ran up, crying: Signorina, signorina 
mia /” She was laughing, and her face was alight. Alasl in a 
moment she burst into tears. 

What was wrong ? 

All me! much was wrong. 

Ludovico Idyane was dead. The fever had killed him when 
the damp miasma of the autumn came. Lucia, his wife, fell ill 
from sadness of heart, and when the heart is bowed down, what 
power has a weak body to fight against poverty and weariness? 
The day was not far distant when ’Cinta would be alone. 

Alone ? 

What of her lover — of Peluso ? 

No one knew certainly. ’Cinta knew naught. When people 
like these get separated, it becomes truly a separation. They do 
not fiy to letter- writing at once. ’Cinta was truly a child of the 
people, and the learning she had was small. For her lover to go 
away meant — well, that he had gone, that she must wait, per- 
haps for all her- life. 

“ That is all nonsense!” This ejaculation Bessie made aloud, 
but it was in English and unintelligible. 

She went home at once, and, being a j’^oung person of energy 
and determination, set to work to solve the difficulty, and to find 
the missing man. She found, as people do who liave tlie will to set 
a matter straight, that some friend of hers knew the command- 
ant of the troops in Genoa, and, to make a long story short, she 
found that Peluso was still in the barracks on the heights. 

A week later ’Cinta was motherless as well as fatherless. 
Lucia the brave wife, just slipped away, fainting out of life 
which had become to her an empty possession. 

The girl ’Cinta must work. To keep life in her she must work, 
but down in the genial south one needs little, and she was young, 
and the older women about her nodded their kerchiefed heads 
over their washing and said : “Wait awhile, she will mend, she 
will laugh again.” 

Another week went, and as yet there was no sign of their 
prophecy being fulfilled. 

Bessie, the English lady, came and went, and said cheerful 
words; then one day she again strolled down to the shore, and 
her face was expectant and radiant. 

Was there ever such a beautiful day? The sea rolled and 
tossed, playing grandly. In tiny circling bays were gems of 
sapphire-blue, all around fringing these dashed opal spray and 
froth; misty islands made vague forms in the distant hazy heat; 
above all blazed the sun in a golden radiance, while the white 
town and the masts of the shipping declared the business and 
fullness of life. 

’Cinta Idyane, with a scarlet handkerchief upon her dark head, 
saw a white lady and a huge white umbrella in the distance; 
she tossed down her washing, and she ran up the gentle slope of 
the shore. 

“ signora ! La signora she cried. 

’Cinta,’’ began Bessie, “ I have a letter. Have you had one, 
too?” 


154 


WILD OATS, 


“ It is here, signora,” and the girl pulled a big letter from her 
pocket; “ shall I ever forgive myself?” 

“ What is wrong now ?” asked her friend. 

“ No wrong, signora, but only so much good that I am 
ashamed. Was it not as in in me to say that he was forgetting me ? 
Surely it was for him to say that of me — of me who wept and 
who cried to la madre that Madonna was cruel. Ahime! and la 
madre does not know now. Do you think she does, signora ?” 
and ’Cinta clasped her brown hands fervently, and gazed at 
Bessie with shining eyes, as if her faith in her friend and her 
faith in Madonna were one and the same. 

Bessie evaded the question. 

“ Do you know what is in my letter ?” 

“ Ah, signora, what do I think of any letter but my own ? I 
will go to Genoa — Giovanni will be glad — when I work some few 
days more. There will be enough money then. How much, 
signora, must I pay for the train?” Her head was set on one 
side, thinking, pondering in simple wonderment. 

“ Peluso sends me a letter, too!” cried Bessie. 

“Ah!” 

He does. Yes, and there is money in it, ’Cinta;” and she drew 
the girl so that she might watch the unfolding of the letter. 
“ He sends money enough to take you to Genoa, and you are to 
go the first day you can.” 

“ Then I will go to-morrow, signora.” 

Bessie laughed softly. 

“It is not wrong, signora?” puzzled the girl. “He asks me, 
he wants me, and do I not belong to him ?” 

[THE END.] 



* 


MRS. ALEX. McVElferH MILLER’S WORKS. 

Na 1. A dreadful Temptation • SOCenta. 

“ 2. The Bride of the Tomb 20 “ 

“ 3. An Old Man’s Darling 20 

“ 4. Queenie’s Terrible Secret 20 “ 

** 5. Jaquellna 20 ** 

6. Little Golden’s Daughter ! ... .20 “ 

“ 7. The Rose and the iJly 20 “ 

“ 8. Countess Vera !..... 20 “ 

“ 9. Bonnie Dora 20 **' 

**10. Guy Kenmore’s Wife *.’.*.*.*.."...’......20 *■ 

GEORGE ELIOT’S WORKS. 

** 11. Janet’s Repentance 10 • 

“ 12. Silas Marner *. ‘ lO “ 

“ 13. Felix Holt, the Radical !. * ! 20 “ 

“ 14. The Mill on the Floss .* 20 “ 

“ 15. Brother Jacob ,..*...! 10 “ 

“ 16. Adam Bede.. 20 ** 

** 17. Romola .*...!... 20 “ 

“ 18. Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Barton !. ..*..*10 “ 

*• 19. Daniel Deronda 20 * 

“ 20. Middlemarch 20 ** 

“ 21. Mr. Gilfll’s Love Story 10 

“ 22. The Spanish Gypsy 20 ** 

“ 28. Impressions of Theophrastus Such 10 “ 

MISCELLANEOUS WORKS. 

“ 24. The Two Orphans. By D’Ennery,,.- 10 “ 

“ 25. Yolande. By William Black 20 ** 

“ 26. Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss Braddon 20 

“ 27. When the Ship Comes Home. By Besant & Rice 10 *• 

“ 28. John Halifax, Gentleman. By Miss Mulock ^ 

“ 29. In Peril of his Life By Gaboriau 20 

“ 30. The Romantic Adventures of a Milkmaid ..10 “ 

“ 31. Molly Bawn. By the Duchess 20 •• 

“ 32. Portia. By the Duchess 20 ** 

“ 33. Kit; a Memory. By James Payne ^ " 

“ 34. East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood 20 " 

“ 35. Her Mother’s Sin. By Bertha M. Clay 10 “ 

“ 86. A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 *' 

“ 37. Phyllis. By the Duchess ^ “ 

“ 38. David Copperfleld. By Charles Dickens 20 * 

“ 39. Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade 20 “ 

“ 40. Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott ^ 

“ 41. Shirley. By Miss Bronte ^ ** 

“ 42. The Last Days of Pompeii. By Bulwer. Lytton 20 ** 

“ 43. Charlotte Temple. By Miss Rowson 10 *' 

“ 44. Dora Thome. By Bertha M. Clay 20 “ 

“ 45. Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles Dickens ^ * ' 

“ 46. Camille. By Alex. Dumas, Jr 10 “ 

“ 47. The Three Guardsmen. By Alex. Dumas , 20 *' 

“ 48. Jane Eyre By Charlotte Bronte 20 ** 

“ 49. Romance of a Poor Youiw Man. By Feulllet 10 “ , 

“ 50. Back to the Old Home. By Mary Cecil Kay 10 

“ 51. Maggie; or, the Loom Girl of Lowell. By William Mason Turner, M. D.20 ** 

“ 52. Two Wedding Rings. By Margaret Blount 20 » 

“ 53. Led Astray. By Helen M. Lewis ^ '* 

54. A Woman’s Atonement. By Adah M. Howard 20 • 

“ 55. False. By Geraldine Fleming 20 

“ 56. The Curse of Dangerfleld. By Elsie Snow 20 “ 

“ 57. Ten Years of His Life. By Eva Evergreen 20 *' 

** 58. A Woman’s Fault. By Evelyn Gray 20 ** 

“ 59. Twenty Years After. By Alex. Dumas 20 

“ 60. A Queen Amongst Women and Between 'Two Sins. By Bertha M. Clay. 20 “ 

“ 61. Madolln’s Lover. By Bertha M. Clay 20 “ 

“ 62. Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Jane Porter 20 ** 

“ 63. Luclle. By Owen Meredith. 20 

“ 64. Charles Auchester. B 


iy E. Berger 20 

Bulwer ^ ** 


“ 66. Aurora Floyd. By Miss Braddon 20 ** 

“ 67. Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. Edwards 20 ** 

“ 68. Called to Account. By Annie Thomas 20 “ 

** 69. Old Myddleton’s Money. By Mary Cecil Hay 20 “ 

“ 70. Thoms and Orange Blossoms. By Bertha M. Clay. Complete 10 “ 

Remember that we do not charge extra for postage. Munro’s Library will b* 
sent to may part of the world, single numbers for 10 cents, double numbers for 
20 cents. 

NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, . 

& 26 yANDBWATBB STw N. Y« 


CONTINUED. 


Ko. 71 Nfcbolaa Nlckleby. By Charles Dickens 70 cents 

'• 72. MothSi a NoveL By “ Ouida ” 20 “ 

“ 73. Gertrude the Governess. By William Mason Turner, M.D .20 “ 

'* 74 Christmas Stories. By Charles Dickens ^ “ 

“ 75. The Executor By Mrs. Alexander 20 “ 

• 76. Annette. By the Author of “ Camille ” •* 

“ 77. A Sinless Crime. By Geraldine Fleming 20 “ 

*' 7i A Double Marriage. By Beatrice Collensie .20 “ 

•• 79. The Wentworth Mystei’y* By Watts Phillips 20 “ 

" 80. Leola Dale’s Fortune. By Geraldine Fleming 20 •• 

•' 81. Plot and Counte^lot. By the Author of “Quadroona” 20 *• 

»• 82. Fair and False. By Mrs. Dale 20 •• 

** 83. Out of the Streets. By Adah M. Howard 20 •* 

•• 84. Set in Diamonds. By the “ Countess ” 20 

'• 85. Who Was the Heir? By Geraldine Fleming 20 “ 

•• 86. Little Golden 20 “ 

•• 87. Daughters of Eve. By Paul Merltt 20 “ 

'* 88. The World Between Them. By the “ Countess ” 20 ** 

•• 89. Beauty’s Marriage. By Owen Marston 20 •* 

" 9a Sundered Hearts. By Adah M. Howard 20 “ 

91. A Fatal Wooing. By Laura J. Libbey 20 » 

92. Only a Girl’s Love. By Geraldine Fleming 20 •• 

9a Not to be Won. By Mrs. Lenox Bell 20 “ 

*• 94. Merit Versus Money. By Garnett Marnell. . . . ^ 20 •* 

" 95. Agatha. By Eva Evergreen 20 •• 

•• 96. Behind the Silver Veil. By Mrs. Dale 20 *• 

’• 97. A Passion Flower. By the “ Countess ” ...^ ♦♦ 

98. Pauline. By the author of “Leonnette’s Secret” 5J0 *• 

“ 99. Wife or Slave. By the author of “ Not to be Won a) ” 

'• 100. A Dark Marriage Morn. Owen Marston ^ •* 

•• 101. Dregs and Froth. By A. H. Wall ^ ” 

" 102. For Better for Worse. By Mostyn Durward 20 “ 

•* 103. What Love Will Do. By Annabel Gray ^ “ 

” 104. Lover and Husband. By Owen Marston 20 “ 

•• 105. As Fate Would Have It. By Evelyn Gray ^ •• 

” 106. A Watting Heart. By Louisa Capsadel 20 " 

** 107. Doubly Wronged. By Adah M. Howard ^ •« 

•* 108. The Eyrie, and The Mystery of a Young Glrk By Court Howard.... 20 “ 

” 109. Gabrielle. By Louise McCarty 20 •• 

•* 110. Sweet as a Rose. By Mostyn Durward 20 ” 

CHARLOTTE M. STANLEY’S WORKS. 

•* ill. The Shadow of a Sin 20 “ 

•• 112. A Waif of the Sea 20 “ 

'* llA The Huntsford Fortune 20 ” 

“ 114. The Secret of a Birth 20 

115. Jessie Deane ^ “ 

“ 116. A Golden Mask. 20 “ 

* 117. Accord and Discord 20 “ 

•* lia A Death-bed Marriage 20 *• 

•• 119. Hearts and Gold . . 20 •• 

1IIISCELL4NEOUS WORKS. 

• 120. Romance of a Black Veil. By Bertha M. Clay K) • 

* 121. At the World’s Mercy. By F. Warden 10 ” 

Remember that we do not charge extra for p(^tage. Mtnmo’s Library will 
sent to any part of the world, single numbers fbr 10 cents, double numbers fo 
1C cents 

NORMAN L. MUNRO. PUBLISHER, 

24 & 26 Vandewatke St., K. Y. 


1 


A GREAT EAMIL! PAPER. 


— <» 

We are glad to announce to the readers of Munro’s Libraiiy, 
that the New York Family Story Paper is spoken of in at 
least jive hundred thousand homes in America as “A Great 
Family Paper.” The circulation of the New York Family Story 
Paper is over half a million (500,000) copies. 

Why has the Family Story Paper taken the place of its com^ 
petitors? 

First. — Because it is in every sense a family paper. 

Second. — Because the continued stories are adapted to the 
readers. 

Third — Because the best authors in the land write for it. 

Fourth. — Because it contains a number of charming short 
stories. 

Fifth. — Because the type is clear, bold, handsome and read- 
able. 

Sixth. — Because it contains a great variety of choice mat- 
ter. 

Seventh. — ^Because it never admitted a dull line in its col- 
umns. 

Eighth. — Because it is independent and without advertise' 
ments. 

Ninth.— Because it is pleasing to heads of famihes. 

Tenth and last. — Because we intended that we should take 
the lead, and that we have accomplished. 

The New York Family Story Paper is sold on every news 
stand in the United States and Canada. The publishers employ 
no agents. If there are no news dealers in remote places, the 
paper vdll be sent to any address free of postage for one year 
for $3.00. Send for a sample copy. Address 

New York Family Story Paper, 

20 Vandewater St, N. Y, 


Little Golden 

Is Publislieil Complete In dumber 

86 

MUIfM0»8 LIBEARY. 

Ask your Newsdealer for No. 86 Munro’s 
Library, Price 20 Cents, 

Her Mother’s Sin, 

BY BERTHA M. CUT. 

Is Published Complete in Number 

35 

MUNRO’S LIBRARY. 

For sale at all news-stands in the United States. 
Price 10 Cents. 


Tlorns ant Orange Blossois. 

BY BERTHA M. CLAY, 

Is Published Complete in No. 

70 

MIXTlVItO’S 

Price lO Cents. For sale at all news-stands and book-stores. 

Remember that we do not charge extra for postage. Munro’s Libra- 
ry will he sent to any part of the world, single numbers for 10 cents, 
doahio numbers for 20 cents. 

jlORMAN L. MUNRO, Publisher, 

?4 ^NO 36 VardewATER ^T,, Y. 



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MRS. ALEX. McVElGH MILLER’S 


11 . 

12 , 

13. 

14, 

1 .*). 


WORKS. 

No. Price. 

1. A Dreadful Temptation -W 

2. The Di ide of the Tomb 20 

3. An Old Man’s Darling ^ 

4. Queenle’s Terrible Secret 20 

5. Jaquelina ^ 

6. Little Golden’s Daughter 20 

7. The Rose and the Lily ^ 

8. Countess Vera 20 

9. Bonnie Dora ^ 

10. Guy Kenmore’s Wife 20 

GEORGE ELIOTS WORK.S. 

Janet’s Repentance 10 

Silas Marner 10 

Felix Holt, the Radical 20 

The Mill on the Floss 20 

Brother Jacob 10 

16. Adam Bede 

17. Romola ^ 

18. Sad Fortunes of Rev. Amos Barton.... F) 

19. Daniel Deronda ^ 

20. Mlddlemarch ^ 

21. Mr. Gilfll’s Love Story 10 

22. The Spanish Gypsy ^ 

23. Impressions of Theophrastus Such — 10 

MISCELLANEOUS WORK?*. » 

24. The Two On)han8. By D’Ennery 10 

25. Yolande. By William Black 20 

26. Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss Brad- 

don 20 

27. When the Ship Comes Home. By Bes- 

ant & Rice 10 

28. John Halifax. Gentleman. By Miss 

Mulock ^ 

29. In >'eril of his Life. By Gaboriau 20 

80. The Romantic Adventures of a Milk- 
maid. By Thomas Hardy 10 

31. Molly Bawn. By the “ Duchess ” 20 

32. Portia. By the “ Duchess ” 20 

33. Kit: a Memory. By James Payn ^ 

34. East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry Wood... 20 

35. Her Mother’s Sin. By Bertha M. Clay. 10 

36. A Princess of Thule. By William Black 20 

37. Phyllis. By the “Duchess ’’ ^ 

38. David Copperfleld. By Charles Dickens 20 

39. Very Hard Cash. By Charles Reade.. 20 

40. Ivanhoe. By Sir Walter Scott 20 

41. Shirley. By Miss Bronte 20 

42. The Last Days of PompelL By Bulwer 

Lytton 20 

48. Charlotte Temple. By Miss Rawson.. 10 

44. Dora Thorne. By Bertha M. Clay 20 

45. Old Curiosity Shop. By Charles 

Dickens 20 

46. Camille. By Alex. Dumas, Jr 10 

47. The Three Guardsmen. By Alex. 

Dumas 20 

48. Jane Eyre. By Charlotte Bronte 20 

49. Romance of a Poor Young Man. By 

Feulllet..„ 10 

50. Back to the Old Homfe. By Mary Cecil 

Hay... 10 

51. Maggie; or, the Loom Girl of LowelL 

By William Mason Turner, M. D 20 

52. Two Wedding Rings. By Margaret 

Blount 20 

53. Led Astray. By Helen M. Lewis 20 


No. 

54. 


.5.5. 

56. 


57. 


58. 

59. 

60. 


61. 

62. 

63. 

64. 

65. 

66 . 

67. 


68 . 

69. 


70. 

71. 


72. 

73. 


74. 


75. 

76. 

77. 


78. 

79. 

80. 
81. 


82. 

83. 


84. 

85. 


86 . 

87. 

88 . 


89. 

90. 


91. 

92. 


93. 

94. 


95. 

96, 

97. 

98, 


99. 


100 . 


Price. 

A Woman’s Atonement. By Adah M. 

Howard 20 

False. By Geraldine Fleming 20 

The Curse of Dangerfleld. By Elsie 

Snow 20 

Ten Years of- Hts Life. By Eva Ever- 
green 

A vVoman’s Fault. By Evelyn Gray. . 
Twenty Years After. By Alex. Dumas 
A Queen Amongst Women, and Be- 
tween Two Sins. By Bertha M. Clay.. 
Madolin’s Lover. By Bertha M. Clay, , 
Thaddeus of Warsaw. By Jane Porter 

Luclle. Bj' Owen Meredith 

Charles Auchester. By E. Berger 

A Strange Si'.ory. By Bulwer 

Aurora Floyd. By Miss Braddon 

Barbara’s History. By Amelia B. 

Edward.s 

Called to Accoui . By Annie Thomas 
Old Myddelton’s Money. By Mary 

Cecil Hay 

Thorns arid Orange Blossoms. By 

Bertha M. Clay. Complete 

Nicholas Nickleby. By Charles Dick- 
ens 

Moths, a Novel. By “Ouida” 

Gertrude the Governess. By William 

Mason Turner, M.D 

Christmas Stories. By Charles Dick- 
ens 

The Executor. By Mrs. Alexander... 
Annette. By the Author of “ Camille ’’ 

A Sinless Cidme. By Geraldine Flem- 
ing 

A Double Marriage. By Beatrice 

Collensie 

The Wentworth Mystery. By Watts 

Phillips 

Leola Dale’s Fortune. By Geraldine 

Fleming. 

Plot and Counterplot. By the Author 

of “Quadroona” 

Fair and False. By Mrs. Dale 

Out of the Streets. By Adah M. 

Howard 

Set in Diamonds. By the “ Countess ” 
Who was the Heir ? By Geraldine 

Flfemlng 

Little Golden 

Daughters of Eve. By Paul Meritt. . , . 
The World Between Them. By the 

“Countess ’’ 

Beauty’s Marriage. By Owen Marston 
Sundered Hearts. By Adah M. How- 
ard 

A Fatal Wooing. By Laura J. Libbey. 
Only a Girl’s Love. By Geraldine 

Fleming 

Not to be Won. By Mrs. Lenox Bell. . 
Merit Versus Money. By Garnett 

Marnell 

Agatha. By Eva Evergreen 

Behind the Silver Veil. By Mrs. Dale. 

A Passion Flower. By the “ Countess ’’ 
Pauline. By the Author of “ Leon- 

nette’s Secret ’’ 

Wife or Slave. By the Author of 

“Not to be Won’’ 

A Dark Marriage Morn. By Owen 
Marston 


20 


20 


20 


Remember that we do not charge extra for postage. Munro’s Library will be sent 
to any part of the world, single numbers for 10 cents, double numbers for 20 cents. 

NORMAN L. MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 


OA Or \T A vr\T:"i»T a «*«*»* Om 


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